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«i 


DRAMATIC    SCENES 


FROM 


REAL   LIFE 


BY    LADY    MORGAN. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 


VOL  I. 


NEW-YORK: 

PRINTED  AND  PUBLISHED  BY  J.  &  J.  HARPER, 

No.  82  Cliff-street, 

AND    SOLD    BY    THE    BOOKSELLERS    GEKERALLT    THROUGHOUT 
THE    UNITED    STATES. 

1833. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2009  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


http://www.archive.org/details/dramaticscenesfrOOmorg 


^p 


PREFACE, 


It  is  no  easy  matter  to  write  up,  or  down,  to  the  present 
state  of  British  literature.  It  may  seem  "  affectations,  look 
you,"  (as  parson  Hugh  has  it,)  to  say  that  literature  is 
leisure  ;  but  its  existence,  in  its  most  palmy  state,  indicates 
an  epoch  in  society,  when  the  public  have  time  to  read, 
what  authors  have  time  to  write.  Such  Avere  the  great  ages, 
when  nations,  after  a  long  and  fevish  struggle,  subsided 
into  some  new  and  settled  order  : — the  ages  of  Augustus,  of 
Lewis  the  Fourteenth,  and  of  Queen  Anne.  The  civil  wars 
of  Rome,  terminating  in  Imperial  tyranny,  the  League 
and  Fronde,  fatal  to  the  French  aristocracy, — and  the  more 
glorious  civil  wars  of  England,  achieving  liberty  and  pros- 
perity for  an  emancipated  nation,  each  left  the  public  mmd 
leisure  to  stoop  from  its  high  quarry  of  political  change,  to 
sport  in  regions  of  purer  intellect,  and  play  with  interests  less 
mundane  and  positive.  Such,  however,  is  not  the  present 
epoch.  We  are  living  in  an  era  of  transition.  Changes 
moral  and  political  are  in  progress.  The  frame  of  the  con- 
stitution, the  frame  of  society  itself,  are  sustaining  a  shock, 
which  occupies  all  minds,  to  avert,  or  to  modify  ;  and  the 
public  refuses  its  attention  to  literary  claimants,  whose  pre- 
tensions are  not  either  founded  on  utility,  or  backed  by  the 
brilliancy  or  brevity  of  their  appeals.  Publishers  and  thea- 
trical lessees,  who  complain  of  the  times,  overlook  this  fact. 
Deceived  by  the  stale  philosophy  of  the  little  back-parlour 
behind  the  shop,  or  the  old  jargon  of  the  green-room  behind 
the  scenes,  they  talk  of  bringing  back  the  public  taste  ;  in- 
stead of  following  its  changes.  There  is  no  legitimate  lite- 
rature, as  there  is  no  legitimate  drama.  Those  who  would 
live  by  the  world,  must  live  in  it,  and  with  it ;  and  adapt 
themselves  to  its  form  and  pressure  ;  for  it  is  in  vain  that 
they  attempt  to  force  society  to  be  amused,  with  what  has 
ceased  to  be  amusing.  Adieu,  then,  for  the  nonce,  ye 
charming  historical  romances,  which  were  not  historical ; 
whose  materiel  waS  taken   from  inventories  ;    and  whose 


IV  PREFACE. 

events  were  coloured  from  the  political  creed  of  the  author. 
Adieu,  ye  fashionable  novels  of  silver  forks,  and  of  golden 
necessaires ;  with  bursts  of  rant,  and  pages  of  platitude. 
Adieu,  ye  volumes  of  paradoxes,  written  to  startle,  not  con- 
vince. Adieu,  ye  lady-like  tales  of  blonde  lace,  and  broken 
hearts, — the  miseries  of  marriage,  and  the  merits  of  Her- 
bault.  The  forms  by  which  imitative  mediocrity  has  long 
sought  the  suffrages  of  fashion,  are  exhausted  :  the  plate  is 
worn  out,  which  once  produced  proof  impressions  of  such 
price  and  mark.  Movement  has  succeeded  to  meditation  ; 
and,  except  the  tones  of  Pasta,  or  the  steps  of  Taglioni, 
*'  point  the  moral  or  adorn  the  tale,"  even  the  scene-shifiing 
drama  fails  to  fix  the  rapid  perceptions  of  a  public,  whose 
own  drama  is  so  bustling  and  pre-occupying.  The  candi- 
dates, therefore,  for  cotemporary  notoriety  must  seek  it  by 
other  means  than  the  pathways,  battus  et  rehattus,  of  book- 
making  and  bookselling.  They  must,  if  they  can,  obtain 
cards  for  a  royal  breakfast  at  Sion,  or  a  fete  at  Chiswick  ;  or, 
if  this  fail,  they  must  try  the  Sunday  mart  of  the  Zoological 
Gardens  ;  and  by  staring  the  eagle  out  of  countenance,  or 
joining  the  bear  in  a  ttte  a  tete,  out-dressing  the  maccaws, 
or  out-chattering  the  monkies,  insure  the  desired  qu'^en 
dira-t-on,  the  object  of  their  frivolous  labours. 

Under  this  impression,  be  it  false  or  true,  I  have  ventured 
to  bring  forward  a  trifling  commodit3r,  of  no  pretension  and 
of  little  importance, — "  a  homely  thing,  but  a  thing  of  my 
own," — a  thing  that  may  be  read  running,  or  dancing,  like 
a  puff  on  a  dead  wall,  or  a  sentiment  on  a  French  fan.  I 
have  thrown  the  heavy  ballast  of  narrative  overboard,  sunk 
the  author ;  and,  loosing  every  rag  of  sail  to  the  breeze,  my 
bark  may  perhaps  (if  the  literary  pirates  and  privateers  do 
not,  as  usual,  strive  to  run  it  down,)  escape  better,  than  nobler 
vessels,  freighted  with  the  fortunes  of  literary  Ceasars,  who 
steer  right  onward,  for  other  epochs  and  better  times.  When 
one,  who,  in  Ireland,  was  a  wit  among  blunderers,  and  a 
blunderer  among  wits,  obtained  a  good  match  for  his  eldest 
daughter,  he  observed,  in  the  ardour  of  his  gratitude  to  the 
pretendant,  "  Troth  then,  sir,  if  I'd  an  oulder,  I'd  give  her 
to  you  :"  and  I  frankly  own  to  the  public  of  the  present  day, 
that  if  I  had  any  thing  to  offer,  more  light  and  trifling,  than 
the  trifle  I  have  the  honour  to  lay  at  its  feet,  I  should,  of 
preference,  have  selected  it, — not  in  presumption,  but  in 
deference  to  the  great  (Questions  by  which  the  world  is  occu- 
pied. 


MANOR  SACKVILLE. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


CHARACTERS. 


Henry  Lumblet  Sackville,  Esq. — An  English  commoner  of  the 
highest  class ;  liberal,  enlightened,  and  philanthropic.  He  has  lately 
added  to  his  immense  hereditary  property,  an  Irish  estate  of  ten  thousand 
a  year,  in  right  of  his  aunt  and  mother,  co-heiresses,  and  representatives 
of  the  ancient  family  of  Sackville. 

Lady  Emily  Lumley  Sackville. — His  gay  and  beautiful  wife,  the 
spoiled  child  of  nature  and  fortune,  of  a  joyous  and  happy  temperament, 
and  a  quick  and  uncontrolled  sensibility  :  a  leader  of  ton  in  London,  and 
an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  Ireland,  and  Irish  novels. 

Lady  Julia  Herbert. — Her  unmarried  sister,  gay,  pretty,  and  petu- 
lant, a  creature  of  circumstances,  a  coquette  in  town,  a  sentimentahst 
in  the  mountains  of  Mogherow. 

The  Hon.  Clarence  Herbert. — Lieutenant  of  the Regiment, 

quartered  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Manor  Sackville,  cousin  and  cavalier 
of  the  ladies  Emily  and  Juha. 

The  Lord  Fitzroy  Montague.— Captain  of  the  same  regiment ;  an 
intimate  of  the  Sackville  circle  in  London,  and  by  chance  a  guest  at 
Manor  Sackville. 

Mrs.  Quigley. — Housekeeper  for  the  last  twenty  years  at  Manor 
Sackville,  under  the  regime  of  its  late  master,  William  Gerald  Mont- 
morency Fitzgerald  Sackville,  Esq.  Mrs.  Q.uigley  is  much  given  to 
cats  and  corpulency,  and  easily  put  out  of  her  way  ;  though  not  out  of 
Manor  Sackville.  ^ 

Little  Judy. — "  Her  Nora,  (but  not)  in  lohile  dimity." 

Terry  Madden,    )      Her  soiifre  douleurs,  and  pages  of  the  poultry- 
ToMMY  Slevein,    3  yard. 


Vlll  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

Jeremiah  Galbraith,  Esq. — Of  Mary-Ville,  Mogherow.  The  man 
of  business  and  sub-agent  of  the  late  Lord  of  Alanor  Sackville,  still  kept 
in  office  till  the  arrival  of  the  Auditor  of  the  estate,  Captain  Williams, 
who  is  abroad. 

Alicia,  Baroness  of  Rosstrevor. — The  young  and  handsome  relict 
of  the  late  oldLordRosstrevor,*a  Saint  of  the  highest  calling,  witha  strong 
vocation  to  found  a  new  religion, — the  Kreudner  or  Southcote  of  Alog- 
herow. 

The  Rev.  Enoch  Grimshaw. — A  professional  Saint,  her  moral  agent, 
to  whose  guardianship,  temporal  and  spiritual,  she  was  bequeathed,  by 
her  late  venerable,  but  rather  suspicious  husband. 

Miss  Grimshaw. — A  maiden  lady,  the  ardent  disciple  and  puffer  of  her 
brother — companion  and  confidant  of  Lady  Rosstrevor. 

Mrs.  Grafton. — A  once  gay  widow,  who  has  recently  had  a  serious 
call. 

Mr.  Binns. — A  very  young,  and  rather  rich  Catechumen,  who  drives 
Mrs.  Grafton  in  his  cab  to  chapel,  class  meetings,  &c.  &c. 

Miss  MuLLixs. — A  would-be  saint  for  the  sake  of  getting  into  good 
society  ;  disciple  of  Mr.  Grimshaw,  and  probationary  visitor  at  Ross- 
trevor Castle. 

The  Hon.  and  Rev.  Dr.  Poltftjs. — Rector  of  Newtown  Manorsack- 
ville.  Vicar  of  Sally  Noggin,  and  Rural  Dean  of  Mogherow,  holding  the 
livings  of  Shu-Beg  and  Shu-More  with  an  income  of  tour  hundred  pounds 
per  annum. 

The  Rev.  ]Mr.  Emerson. — His  curate,  (at  seventy  pounds  per  annum,) 
an  odd  sort  of  young  man,  not  particularly  well  thought  of  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

Hon.  and  Rev.  Mrs.  Poltpus. — Wife  of  the  Doctor,  and  daughter  of 
Dr.  Grindall,  late  Bishop  of  the  Diocese. 

Archdeacon  Grindall. — Son  of  the  late  Bishop. 

Mrs.  Archdeacon  Grindall. — Daughter  by  a  former  marriage  of  Dr. 
Polypus. 

Miss  Polypus. — Daughter  of  the  Doctor  by  his  present  lady. 

Sir  Job  Blackacre — of  Blackacre,  high  sheriff  of  the  county,  a 
magistrate,  and  very  influential  person  at  the  Castle  of  DubUn,  in  former 
heutenancies,  but  now  a  little  shorn  of  his  beams.  A  magnate  of  the 
first  class  in  the  barony  of  Mogherow. 

Captain  Blackacre, — his  son,  of  the regiment  of  heavy  dra- 
goons;— paying  his  addresses  to  Miss  Polypus,  and  much  occupied  in 
looking  at  his  rings,  in  combing  his  hair,  drawing  up  his  shirt-collar,  and 
tapping  his  boots  with  his  whip. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  IX 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Ever ard.— Parish  priest  of  Mogherow,  of  the 
foreign  school ;  of  bland  and  persuasive  manner,  adopting  or  dropping 
the  Irish  brogue  at  will.    An  ex-professor  of  the  Jesuit  college  of  Cuenca. 

The  Reverexd  Mr.  O'Callaghan,  alias  Father  Phil— (his  curate,) 

of  the  College  of  Maynooth. 

Mr.  Sampson. — A  tithe-proctor. 

Mr.  Brady. — A  surveyor. 

Cornelius  Brian. — A  ringleader  of  Whitefeet. 

Honor  Brian. — His  wife. 

Dan  O'Leart,  Darby  O'Loughlin,  and  Shane  Dhu  Sullivan. — 
Peasants. 

Mr.  M'Dermot,  Mr.  O'Hanlan,  and  Mr.  Phineas  Finnegan. — 
Patriots,  &c. 

Mr.  Jones. — Sub-sheriffto  Sir  Job,  an  attorney. 

The  Widow  Gaffney. — Hostess  of  the  Rosstrevor  Arms.  The  new- 
light  inn  of  the  new-hght  village  of  Sally  Noggin. 

Mr.  and  jNIrs.  Brallaghan. — Merchants  (i.  e,  proprietors  of  "  the 
shop'')  of  Mogherow. 

Saints,  Sinners,  Patriots,  Policemen,  Whitefeet,  Redfeet,  and  Black- 
feet,  Conservatives,  Destructives,  Orangemen,  Ribbon-men,  Footmen, 
Groom  of  the  Chambers,  "  and  others." 

TiMUR. — Mr.  Sackville's  Newfoundland  dog. 

Bijou. — Lady  Emily's  pug. 

MuNGo. — A  large  black  catj  the  idol  of  Mrs.  Quigley's  ^^  passione  gai- 
Uscha,''^ 


THE  SCENE 


Lies  principally  at  Manor  Sackville,  an  ancient  fabric  of  vast  extent  and 
low  elevation,  in  the  mountains  of  the  barony  of  Mogherow,  and  county 

of— ,  in  the  north-west  of  Ireland  ;  and  in  the  neighbouring  villages 

of  New-Town-Mount-Sackville,  Mogherow,  and  Sally  Noggin.  The  first, 
an  old  English  "  plantation,"  (much  decayed,)  of  the  time  of  James  the 
First.  Sally  Noggin,  from  a  boggy  common,  covered  with  lawless 
paupers,  has  become  a  trim  resort  of  New-Light  Sectarians,  possessing 
much  of  the  externals  at  least,  of  cleanliness  and  prosperity,  if  "  all 
within"  does  not  exactly  correspond.  There  is  perhaps  too  much  of  the 
"  painted  sepulchre"  about  its  temporal  arrangements.  The  walls, 
without,  being  punctually  whitewashed,  and  flanked  with  Chinese  roses 
and  woodbine  ;  while  the  interior  has  added  nothing  but  hj'pocrioy  to  the 
original  attributes  of  idleness,  thnftlessncss,  and  misery.  Mogherow  is  a 
genuine  Irish  town  of  the  third  or  fourth  class,  unchanged  during  the  last 
century  ;  swarming  with  pigs,  beggars,  and  children  ;  and  richly  endowed 
with  shebeen  houses,  and  "  porter,  punch,  and  spirit  stores."  The  moun- 
tain district,  in  the  vicinity,  is  of  the  wildest  description,  with  inhabitants 
*'  to  match."  Among  the  latter,  are  distributed  many  unfortunate  out- 
laws, driven  there,  partly  by  the  sudden  rage  for  large  farms  and  pasture 
culture,  and  partly  by  the  labours  of  an  "  active  magistracy,"  at  deadly 
feud  with  the  religion  of  the  people.  In  the  plain  below,  there  are  a  few 
squireens  and  middlemen,  drunk  with  the  insolence  of  religious  suprem- 
acy ;  but  from  pride  and  idleness,  not  much  more  comfortable  in  their 
appearance,  than  the  mass  of  rack-rented  ci-devant  forty-shilling  freehold- 
ers, who  form  the  great  body  of  the  inhabitants,  near  the  mansions  of  the 
resident  landlords. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


SCENE  I.— Time,  mid-day. 


[The  housekeeper's  room  at  Manor  Sackville,  a  long,  low,  narrow 
apartment  on  the  ground  floor,  commanding,  by  a  single  Ehza- 
bethan  window,  a  view  of  the  poultry-yard, "and  kitchen  offices. 
Near  the  window  reposes  an  old  easy  chair,  of  a  very  uneasy  form, 
but  well  pillowed.  Before  it  stands  a  spider  table,  on  which  lies 
open  a  new  "  SaWy  Koggin  Bible  Society"  Bible,  marked  by  specta- 
cles, and  laden  with  a  trash  bag,  knitting  apparatus,  and  nutmeg- 
grater.  On  either  side  hangs  a  bird-cage,  from  which  an  old  cana- 
ry and  a  young  thrush  sing,  in  emulation  of  the  various  noises 
which  ascend  from  the  basse  cour.  On  one  side  of  a  blazing  turf 
fire,  which  fills  the  ungrated  hearth,  lies  Mungo  the  cat,  upon  his 
red  cushion.  On  the  other,  sprawls  on  her  knees,  little  Jud}', 
toasting  herself  and  a  round  of  bread  ;  while  Mrs.  duigley  is  but- 
tering another  round  at  the  breakfast  table,  that  stands  in  front. 
Judy's  garments  are  scanty ;  Mrs.  duigley's  costume  is  voluminous 
and  cosmopolite.  Her  shawl  is  Scotch,  her  gown  Irish  poplin,  and 
her  cap  French.] 


MRS.  aUIGLEY,  (moaning  and  buttering  her  toast.) 

Ochone  !  well,  well !  what  is  all  this  for  ?  I  declare  to 
the  Lord,  I  haven't  a  foot  to  stand  on  ;  and  might  as  well 
never  have  laid  my  side  on  bed,  for  all  the  sleep  I  got  :  and 
breakfast  to  purvoid  for  twenty,  and  more  ;  and  the  quality 
less  trouble  than  th'  other  bastes!  And  in  regard  of  the  be- 
havior of  Mr.  Galbraith  ! — such  behavior  I  never  seed  !  To 
say  that  he,  who  is  never  out  of  the  place,  day  or  night,  when 
not  a  Christian  is  in  it,  living  or  dead  (as  his  wife  says,  and 
a  poor  jealous  sow!  she  is  !)  that  he'd  be  letting  the  new 
people,  and  all  the  quality,  and  them  divils  of  furreigners 
and  impudent  English  ladies'  maids  arrive,  and  he  not  here 
to  receive  them  !  but  throwing  every  thing  upon  me,  a  poor 
lone  woman !     [Gives  a  glance  at  the  window,  which  she 


^  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

taps  violently^  and  then  opens.']  Very  well,  Terry  Madden  ! 
Ye  think  I'm  not  looking  at  ye  !  Is  that  the  way  ye  are 
plucking  the  powltry,  ye  little  spalpeen  ?  Is  it  flaying  them 
alive  ye  are,  and  letting  the  feathers  fly  about  ?  Do  you 
hear,  Johnny  SleA'ein,  lave  off  there,  cramming  Mr.  Gal- 
braith's  pay-cock,  and  run  up  the  mount,  and  see  if  there's 
any  notion  of  his  gig  on  the  road.  Well !  old  Molly,  the 
hin-wife,  w^as  the  greatest  of  losses  !  It's  now  I  miss  her  ; 
and  the  powltry  never  thriving  since. 

[Johnny  Slevein,  perceiving  that  he  has  nearly  choked  Mr.  Gal- 
braith's  peacock  with  a  lump  of  dough,  scampers  off  with  great 
glee,  and  Mrs.  Gluigley  closes  the  window.] 


MRS.  aUIGLEY. 

Judy,  dear,  did  Mungo  take  his  warm  sup  of  milk  this 
morning,  the  cratur  1 

JUDY. 
Sorrow  sup  ;  there  it  lies  beside  him,  ma'am. 

MRS.  GIUIGLEY. 

Well,  there's  something  wrong  with  that  baste  ;  and  I 
wouldn't  wonder  if  some  of  them  furreigners  had  pisoned 
him.     It's  little  they'd  think  of  it, — or  me  either. 

JUDY,  (turning  the  toast,  with  a  look  of  horror.) 
Och  musha  ! 

MRS.  aUIGLEY,  (carressing  the  cat.) 
My  pusheen  slawn,  3'e  were,  and  my  own  old  deelish  dliu. 

MUNGO,  (wagging  his  tail.) 
Pur — r — r — r — r  ! 

MRS.  aUIGLEY. 

Aye,  in  truth  were  ye  ?  [Starts  up.]  Huisht,  now  ! — 
quit ! — 

[Listens — a  dreadful  confusion  of  sounds  in  the  poultry-yard.     i\Irs. 
Gluigley,   followed  by  Judy,   flies   to  the  window.      The  whole 


MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


society  of  the  basse  cour  is  in  a  state  of  dissolution,  occasioned  by 
the  invasion  of  Tiniur,  a  magnificent  New-foundland  dog,  and  his 
little  ally,  Bijou,  a  poodle.  The  former  is  distinguished  by  a  su- 
perb collar,  the  latter  by  a  knot  of  rose  ribbons,  and  a  silver  bell 
dangling  from  his  neck.] 

MRS.  aUiaLEY,  (screaming.) 

Och,  murther,  murther  !  My  hatching  hin  off  her  nest ! 
and  och  !  what's  gone  of  the  head  of  the  Muscovoy  duck  ? 
Judy,  run,  my  girleen,  with  the  fork,  and  kill  them  divils  of 
dogs.  Och  !  this  is  a  pretty  work,  and  Mr.  Galbraith's  pay- 
cock,  that  he  left  me  to  rare  !  Terry  Madden,  why  don't 
you  kill  thim  dogs,  ye  little  cowardly  spalpeen  ?  Och  !  then, 
Johnny  Slevein,  I'll  tache  you  to  lave  the  powltry-yard  open 
after  ye,  ye  dirty  brat ! 

[The  dogs  pursue  the  poultry,  and  Judy  and  Terry  pursue  the  dogs. 
An  extremely  fashionable  footman,  armed  with  an  elegant  horse- 
whip, lays  about  Terry  and  Judy  ;  snatches  up  Bijou,  and  ties  9. 
handkerchief  to  Tiinur's  collar  to  lead  him  off] 

FOOTMAN,  (in  a  sharp  cockney  accent.) 

I  say,  you  little  Hirish  savages  !  what  do  you  mean  by 
'anting  my  lady's  dogs  ?  If  I  ever  see  one  of  you  filthy  bog- 
trotters  meddle  with  our  hanimals,  I'll  have  your  dirty  little 
Hirish  skins  dragged  over  your  hears.  I  have  no  hidear  of 
such  impudence  !  no  more  I  ha'n't. 

[Exit  in  a  rage.  Mrs.  Quigley,  completely  subdued,  shuts  the  win- 
dow, and  seats  herself  at  the"  breakfast  table.] 

MRS.  aUIGLEY. 

Well,  well,  the  Lord  's  above  all.  But  the  world  's  come 
to  an  end.  The  millennum  's  come,  as  Mr.  Grimshaw  said, 
at  Sally  Noggin  Rosstrevor  chapel  last  Sunday.  "  The  in- 
fernal raigions  opens  to  receive  yez  all,"  (says  he,)  and  so  it 
does.  Would  any  one  know  Manor  Sackville  this  day  ?  Not 
all  as  one,  as  in  th'  ould  gentleman's  time.  It's  he  that  loved 
his  powltry  ; — to  say  nothing  of  ould  Molly  !  Well,  it  doesn't 
signify  talking.  I'll  quit  the  place,  as  soon  as  Mr.  Gal- 
braith  comes.  That's  if  he  ever  comes.  My  mind  misgives 
me  about  that  man  !  Five  days  away !  He  that  was  as  reg- 
ular as  clockwork!  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  them  furreigners 
pisoned  him.     They're  a  bad  breed. 

[Wipes  her  face,  and  gives  other  signs  of  strong  emotion,  in  mutter- 
ing and  broken  exclamations.     In  the  mean  time,  the  door  opens, 
2 


4  MANOR    SACKYILLE. 

and  Mr.  Galbraith,  a  smug,  snug,  red-faced  person,  with  eyes  and 
mouth  puckered  into  a  most  characteristic  expression  of  humorous 
cunning,  pokes  his  head  in.] 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 
God  save  all  here  !     Is  the  coast  clear,  Mrs.  duigley  ? 

MRS.  aUIGLEY. 

Och  !  the  Lord  be  praised.  Is  it  you,  Mr.  Galbraith,  are 
come  at  last  ?  Well,  it's  time  for  you  :  better  late  nor  never  ! 
Come  in,  sir.  I  wouldn't  have  wet  the  tay,  if  I'd  thought 
you'd  have  come,  at  all,  at  all :  but  I  gave  you  up  entirely. 

[During  this  apostrophe,  Mrs.  Gluigley  assists  in  disrobing  Mr.  Gal- 
braith.] 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Thank  you,  ma'm,  thank  you.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I'll 
just  lave  my  surtout  outside,  if  you  plaze.  My  man,  Tim 
Reyftolds,  is  waiting  to  give  it  a  shake.  It's  Avet  through, 
ma'am,  with  the  mountain  dew.  Stay,  ma'am, — my  life-pre- 
server's a  little  tight.  [He  takes  off  a  net  neck  scarf  from  his 
neck.]  Your  own  purty  knitting,  Mrs.  Gluigley.  Take  care, 
ma'am,  if  you  plaze.  Them  two  little  travelling  companions 
is  mighty  touch-and-go  sort  of  gentlemen.  [TaJces  two  pistols 
from  his  breast.']  ]d[ere,  Tim,  take  all  up  to  my  room  ;  and 
get  me  an  entire  change  ready,  and  my  new  black  shoot  of 
mourning.  [Sighs.]  I'll  engage  Judy  has  good  care  of  me, 
in  regard  of  a  bit  of  fire  in  my  own  little  glory  hole  ! 

JUDY. 

I'll  just  run  and  throw^  a  sod  on  it,  sir. 

(Exit  Judy.) 

[Mr.  Galbraith  seats  himself  at  the  breakfast  table,  and  begins  an 
immediate  attack  on  the  buttered  toast.  Mrs.  Q,uigley  "bustles 
through  the  duties  of  the  tea-table;  and,  full  of  the  importance  of 
her  recent  troubles,  opens  a  volley  of  reproach,  complaint,  solicita- 
tion, and  self-applause,  on  the  resigned,  but  occasionally  deeply 
sighing  Mr.  Galbraith.] 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 
Well,  ma'am,  when  ye  hears  all,  it's  pitying  me  ye'll  be, 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  5 

instead  of  blaming  me — I'll  thrubble  ye  for  another  cup  of 
tay — Grief  is  dry,  they  say.  A  thimble-full  of  brandy,  ma'am, 
as  it's  on  the  table,  just  to  qualify  it.  It's  a  wet  morning, 
ma'am,  [sig-hs,]  and  there's  an  ould  saying, 

Happy  is  the  bride  the  sun  shines  on, 

And  happy  is  the  burying  the  rain  drops  on. 

MRS.  aUIGLEY,  (much  provoked.) 

Och  !  never  talk  to  me,  Mr.  Galbraith,  of  brides  and  ber- 
rings.  It's  other  things  you  ought  to  be  thinking  of.  If  any 
one  had  sworn  before  a  rigistered  magistrate,  that  you  would 
be  out  of  the  way,  just  as  the  new  people  were  coming  to  take 
possession,  and  that  you'd  throw  all  upon  me,  a  lone  woman  ; 
and  cart  loads  of  groceries  coming  down  from  Dublin,  sir, 
and  twenty  beds  ordered,  and  you  away  five  whole  days, 
and  never  coming  near  the  place,  and  above  all  times  in  the 
world 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (interrupting  her  with  a  look  at  onee  imploring  and 
deploring.) 

Och  !  then,  Mrs.  Q.uigley,  is  it  possible,  ma'am,  ye  didn't 
hear  the  melancholy  news  of  my  domestic  misfortune  ? 

MRS.  aUIGLEY,  (peevishly.) 

News  !  What  news,  sir  ?  What  should  prevint  you,  if  you 
cared  for  your  own  consarns,  or  mine,  coming  here  to  recaive 
Mr.  Sackville  and  my  lady  '^  Sure,  sir,  barring  your  wife 
was  lying  dead  before  you,  what  else  should  interfare  with 
the  agent,  and  great  man  of  the   dace  being  on  the  spot  ? 


MR.  GALBRAITH,  (clasping  his  hands,  and  drawing  his  face  on  one 
side  with  a  most  doleful  look.) 

And  what  else  was  it,  Mrs.  Quigley  ?  Sure,  Ma'am,  the 
late  Mrs.  Galbraith  is  dead,  and  buried  this  day  in  Moghe- 
row  churchyard.  [Mrs.  Quigley  throws  vp  her  hands  and 
eyes  in  unspeakable  astonishment.']  Aye,  indeed,  ma'am  ! 

[Wipes  his  mouth  in  mistake  for  his  eyes.] 


MRS.  aUIGLEY. 
Jasus  preserve  us  ! — Amen  !     She  that  I  saw  last  Sunday 


6  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

at. Sally  Noggin  Chapel,  with  her  new  family  jaunting  car, 
and  Miss  Costello  ;  and  this  Friday 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Aye  indeed,  ma'am  ! — and  was  at  a  party  on  Monday  at 
Sub-Sheriff  Jones's,  where  Sir  Job  and  my  Lady  were  ex- 
pected :  and  on  Tuesday  evening,  ma'am,  after  the  heartiest 
dinner  ever  I  saw  the  poor  woman  ate,  and  taking  her  usual 
quantity  of  port  wine,  and  her  glass  of  punch  afterAvards — 
I'll  say  rather  more  than  usual.  Mistress  Gluigle}',  than  less  ; 
— and  she  making  a  party  with  Miss  Costello  to  meet  the 
cavalcade  yesterday,  com.ing  to  Manor  Sackville,  with 
colours  flying  in  honour  of  the  memory  of  his  uncle,  in  the 
new  family  car, — all  of  a  sudden,  ma'am, — just  as  if  you 
would  say  a  drop  of  punch  went  the  w^rong  way, — she  made 
a  w^ry  face,  and  dropped,  as  if  she  was  shot,  on  the  floor. 
And  so,  ma'am,  as  it  plazed  the  Lord,  in  his  infinite  wisdom, 
to  take  my  poor  woman  to  himself,  I  conveyed  her  to  her  last 
home,  this  morning,  on  my  way  here  ;  and  she  was  launched, 
I  may  say,  into  eternity,  in  the  churchyard  of  Mogherow:, 
at  ten  o'clock  this  morning.  [He  puts  his  handkerchief  to 
his  eyes,  and  then,  spreading  it  on  his  knees,  breaks  a  second 
egg.]  And  now,  Mrs.  Q,uigley,  would  it  be  dacent,  I  put 
it  to  you,  or  proper,  for  me  to  have  left  my  poor  woman, 
without  even  a  shoot  of  genteel  mourning,  and  present  my- 
self among  a  parcel  of  strangers ;  and  I  in  throuble,  and 
and  wanting  all  my  presence  of  mind  !  For  they  say  these 
English  people  are  mighty  high  and  hoity-toity,  as  it  were, 
— nobody  knows  what  to  make  of  'em. 

MRS.  dUIGLEY,  (weeping  behind  her  pocket  handkerchief,  and  after 
an  affecting  pause,) 

Surely,  sir,  surely,  it  would  not  be  dacent.  But  och  ! 
Mr.  Galbraith,  just  to  see,  as  Mr.  Grimshaw  says,  one's 
right  hand  doesn't  know  w^hat  one's  left  one  does  :  and  we're 
grass  to-day,  and  flesh  to-morrow ; — and  never  heard  a 
word  of  it, — and  no  wonder,  for  the  place  was  more  like  a 
Bedlam  since  Monday  last.  But,  sir,  it  was  mighty  soon  to 
bury  the  cratur,  she  dying  on  Tuesday,  and  in  her  grave 
on  Friday  morning, — the  Lord  bless  us  ! 

MR.  GALBRAITH.  (petulantly,  and  filling  his  own  lea-cup.) 

Ah  !  nonsense  now.  Mistress  Gluigley,  what  deader  could 
she  be,  if  she  died  last  Christmas  ?     I  wonder  to  hear  you. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


a  sinsible  woman,  giving  into  them  saints,  that  are  ruining 
the  place.  [Continues  his  breakfast.']  Well,  ma'am,  what 
do  you  think  of  the  new  people  ?  Tim  Reynolds,  who  has 
been  on  a  sharp  look  out,  tells  me  that  them  blackguard 
cottiers,  and  con-acre  men,  about  Manor  Sackville  town,  and 
others  from  Mogherow,  came  powering  down,  hurrahing  in 
the  new  man, — the  dirty,  mane,  ungrateful  spalpeens,  that 
were  bred  egg  and  bird,  under  the  late  raal  good  and  loyal 
gintleman  ;  and  making  believe  that  the  new  one  was  of 
their  own  kidne)^,  and  as  green  as  the  dike  of  shoobeg  ! 
Well,  never  mind.  But  what  do  you  think  of  them,  ma'am, 
and  the  Lady  Emily  ?  Sub-sheriff  Jones  says  she  is  a  ran- 
tipole  woman  of  quality,  and  won't  stand  the  place  :  but  that 
he's  of  the  right  sort,  and  of  a  great  Protestant  family,  as 
well  as  his  late  uncle.  But  who  knows  ?  so  I  just  stepped 
in  by  the  ould  back  road,  to  get  a  word  with  you  :  for  it 
isn't  now,  widow  duigley,  that  I  need  be  telling  you,  that 
it's  the  greatest  reliance,  ma'am,  I  have  on  your  opinion  ;  and 
a  great  friendship  my  poor  woman  had  for  you,  till  Miss 
Costello  put  odd  things  in  her  head.  [Suiiles.] 

MRS.  aUIGLEY,  (weeping.) 

Och  !  then,  sir,  there  was  no  love  lost  between  us — and 
God  forgive  Kitty  Costello  ;  and  that's  the  worst  I  wish 
her.  And  I  hope  the  death  of  my  late  friend  will  make  no 
odds  betwixt  us,  Mr.  Galbraith,  but  quite  the  contrayry. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (taking  the  widow's  hand.) 

Widow  Q,uigley,  I  intended  long  ago,  ma'am,  to  spake  to 
you  about  your  bit  of  land  by  Jones's  Fort.  For  the  rint  is 
too  high,  ma'am  ;  and  so  I  shall  tell  Mr.  Sackville. — And  so 
they  arrived  the  day  before  yesterday,  did  they  ?  A  deso- 
late ould  place  they  found  it,  I'll  be  bound,  [chuckling,]  and 
great  complaints,  I'll  engage, — and  the  damp — and  the 
rains — and  th'  ould  furniture  ! 

MRS.  aUIGLEY,  (impatiently.) 

Not  at  all,  sir.  They're  highly  delighted  with  every- 
thing— that's  the  quality  themselves  ;  but  as  for  the  English 
ladies'  maids,  and  the  furreigners, — but  I'm  not  come  to  that, 
nor  wuthin  a  mile  of  it,  Mr.  Galbraith.     Well,  sir,  your  gig 

2* 


8  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

hadn't  drawn  scarce  from  the  door,  Monday  morning,  when 
comes  a  waggon  and  cars  from  Dublin,  with  wine  and  gro- 
ceries, and  the  Lord  knows  what  besides — chany  oranges 
and  fruit,  sir  ;  and  it  was  night  before  all  was  stowed  away. 
And  I  was  putting  on  my  night-cap,  Mr.  Galbraith,  and  step- 
ping into  bed  ;  and  Judy  raking  over  the  turf,  and  Jemmy 
Malone  locking  up  the  great  door,  when,  to  my  entire  sur- 
prise, drives  up,  sir,  a  coach-and-four,  stuffed  inside  and  out 
with  gentlemen  and  ladies.  Upon  my  credh,  you  might 
have  knocked  me  down  with  a  pin.  So,  sir,  I  dressed  in  the 
best  I  could  find,  and  hurried  down  to  recaive  Mr.  Sackville, 
and  my  lady,  and  Lady  Julia,  and  made  my  best  curtsey,  sir, 
and  said  as  how  you  were  just  gone,  and  never  expected 
them  till  Thursday  evening.  And  to  be  sure  it's  them  that 
took  an  ;  and  such  airs,  and  the  half  of  them  without  a  word 
of  English  in  their  mouths  ; — and  such  jabbering  and  calling 
for  lights  here,  and  fires  there  .  and  asking  me  if  I  was  the 
Irish  cook,  and  what  there  was  for  supper  ?  And  one  would 
have  tay,  and  another  would  have  coffee  ;  and  when  I  said 
you  had  the  kay  of  the  cellar,  off  with  the  heads  of  the  bot- 
tles out  of  the  hampers.  And  such  squabbling,  and  turning 
up  of  noses  ;  and  every  thing  was  so  dirty,  and  this,  and  that. 
It  was  three  in  the  morning  before  I  could  get  them  to  bed. 
And  v\^ho  do  you  think  the  great  quality  was  ?  why,  sir,  no 
quality  at  all,  but  the  out-of-livery  servants,  sir,  and  a  young 
woman  as  called  herself  my  Lady's  own  chambermaid,  and 
her  assistants  in  silk  pelisses,  trimmed  with  fur  !  Well, 
well ! — Well,  sir,  and  the  gentlemen — there  was  the  French 
cook,  that  takes  his  coffee  without  crame,  and  another  fur- 
reigner,  a  mighty  swarthy  cratur,  that  seemed  to  be  the  whip- 
per-in of  the  whole  pack,  and  takes  the  greatest  of  airs  upon 
himself.  And  would  you  believe  it,  Mr.  Galbraith,  they  had 
the  impudence  to  say,  that  English  pigs  have  better  styes, 
than  the  ould  servants'  hall ;  and  they  took  possession  of  the 
second  best  dining-room  for  themselves  ;  and  have  written 
over  the  door,  "  Steward's  room.  No  entrance  for  livery  or 
Irish  servants  !"  And  so,  now,  Mr.  Galbraithj  I'll  quit  the 
place  ;  and  it's  only  for  you  that  I  didn't  quit  it  long  since. 


MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Tut,  woman,  don't  make  a  Judy  of  yourself.  Quit  the 
place  !  for  what  ?  Sorrow  a  foolisher  tiling  ever  you  did 
than  that  same,  Mrs.  Gluigley.     What  does  it  matter,  ma'am. 


MANOR  SACKVILLE.  9 

for  a  few  weeks  ? — and  you  mistress  of  the  place,  I  may  say, 
for  the  rest  of  your  days,  with  your  tribute  fowl,  and  your 
tribute  eggs,  coming  in  to  you,  and  your  little  taste  of  build- 
ing going  on,  down  below  in  the  town.  Ah  !  be  aisy  now, 
Mrs.  Gluigley,  and  let  them  above,  there,  have  their  run. 
I'll  engage  they'll  be  sick  at  heart  of  the  whole  thing,  before 
the  month  is  out. 


MRS.  aUIGLEY,  (composing  herself) 

Well,  if  I  thought  that,  sir  ;  if  I  was  sure  they  would  not 
stay  over  the  Christmas. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

If  you  were  sure  of  it  !  Why,  then,  I  think  we  have 
made  purty  sure  of  that,  ma'am,  if  the  want  of  every  conva- 
nience  in  life, — if  a  tight  pattern  of  beds,  and  the  clearing 
out  of  the  ould  lumber-room,  in  the  castle  wing,  down  to  the 
sitting  rooms,  by  way  of  furniture, — if  hard  bottomed  chairs, 
and  ricketty  tables,  and  not  a  pot  fit  to  bile  a  potatoe  in,  that 
han't  a  hole  in  it  as  big  as  my  head,  will  do  the  business. 
What,  betwixt  the  young  mutton,  and  the  ould  poultrj^,  and 
Mr.  Brazier's  sour  beer,  and  your  own  sweet  vinegar,  and 
beef  as  tough  as  a  suggawn,  the  divil's  in  it  if  the}^  arn't 
soon  tired  of  Ireland  and  Manor  Sackville. 


MRS.  aUIGLEY. 

Och  !  sir,  you  don't  know  them  at  all  at  all.  Why,  in 
regard  of  the  ould  furniture,  sir,  the  oulder  the  better,  it 
seems ;  and  the  worse  every  thing  is  in  the  place,  the  more 
they  laugh  at  it.  The  divil  of  such  giggling  and  romping 
ever  I  seed  in  the  place,  since  first  I  come  to  it.  Himself^ 
indeed,  is  a  fine,  saucy,  comely  gentleman,  and  surely  has  a 
fine  air  with  him,  like  a  lord  ;  and  no  m^ore  like  the  late  gen- 
tleman, than  if  they  were  neither  kith  nor  kin.  But  as  to 
my  Lady,  and  Lady  Julia,  and  them  young  officers,  that  they 
found  on  the  road,  I  hear,  watching  the  sale  of  the  tithe-pigs, 
and  nobody  to  buy  them — why  Mr.  Galbraiih,  they're  no 
more  the  breeding  nor  Avays  of  raal  Irish  gentry,  than  little 
Judy  there.  Nothing  high  nor  genteel,  like  Lady  Black- 
acre,  and  the  Rev.  Mrs.  Polypus  ;  but  going  on  with  their 
game,  and  their  skit,  and  skelping  about  the  place,  sir,  like 
mad !     Why  they  Averen't  five  minutes  in  it,  sir,  when  they 


10  MANOR   SACKVILLE. 

were  all  down  in  here  upon  the  top  of  me ;  and  I,  taking- 
my  tay  in  pace  and  quiet,  after  recaiving  them  in  great  state 
in  the  hall,  and  showing  them  the  rooms  to  dress  for  dinner, 
which  wasn't  ordered  till  nine  ;  what  do  you  think  of  that, 
Mr.  Galbraith  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Why,  ma'm,  Mr.  M'Kew,  th'  attorney  of  Dublin,  (clerk  of 
the  Crown,  and  Sub-sheriff  Jones's  Dublin  agent,)  always 
dines  at  six.  The  Honourable  and  Reverend  dines  at  seven, 
to  a  moment ;  and  turned  away  his  French  cook  for  being 
five  m.inutes  before  the  time.  So  it  is  but  raisonable,  that  the 
London  duality  should  be  more  foolish  nor  they.  Well, 
ma'am,  give  me  my  comfortable  bit  of  mutton  at  four,  like 
the  late  ould  gentleman  ; — but  go  on,  Mrs.  Q,uigley. 

MRS.  aUIGLEY. 

To  be  sure  sir,  but  as  I  was  saying,  in  burst  the  whole 
set,  and  my  lady  at  the  head  of  them,  romping  and  laughing  : 
and  "We're  come  to  pay  you  a  visit,  dear  Mrs.  O'Gluigley," 
says  she.  "  Your  ladyship  does  me  much  honour,  madam," 
sajrs  I,  courtesying,  and  Judy  looking  like  a  stuck  pig. 
'*  But,  plaze  your  Ladyship,  my  name  is  Q,uigley,  and  no 
O,  my  lady."  "  O  dear,"  says  she,  "  but  you're  Irish,  ar'n't 
you  ?"  [Mimicking  the  English  accent ,-]  "  at  least,  I  hope 
you  are."  "  To  be  sure  she  is,"  says  the  young  lady,  putt- 
ing up  her  quizzing  glass.  "  Don't  you  see  her  dear  old 
Irish  face,  and  her  old  Irish  wrinkles  ?  I  do  so  like  her 
Irish  face  ;  and  won't  you  tell  us  all  sorts  of  stories  about  this 
old  castle  Rackrent,"  says  she ;  "  and  about  O'Rourke's 
noble  faste,"  says  one  of  th'  officers. 

"  That  will  ne'er  be  forgot 
By  them  that  was  there,   and  by  them  that  was  not," 

And  then,  sir,  they  all  set  up  a  laugh.  *'  And  I  do  so  like 
her  old  Irish  cap,"  says  my  lady, — (my  bran  new  French 
cap,  sir,  that  came  from  Ennis  by  the  fly  that  day.)  But 
nothing  should  serve  her,  sir,  but  she  must  try  on  my  cap  ; 
and  dashes  down  her  own  illigant  bonnet, — there,  sir,  on  the 
floor  ;  and  runs  off  to  show  it  to  Mr.  Sackville. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Ha,  ha,  ha  !  well  to  be  sure  !     And  then,  ma'am  ! 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  H 

MRS.  aUIGLEY. 

And  then,  sir,  up  snatches  Lady  Julia  my  poor  Mungo, 
hugg-ing-  and  kissing  him.  "  And  this  is  a  raal  Irish  cat, 
my  Lord  Fitzroy,"  says  she,—"  did  you  ever  see  such  a 
dear  quiet  sowl  ?  "  "  And  uhat  do  you  call  it,  Mrs.  Quig- 
ley  ?  "  says  she.  "  Mungo,  plaze  your  Ladyship,"  says  l, 
*'  in  regard  of  the  black  man  in  the  play."  "  Mungo,  says 
she  ;  "  why  don't  you  call  it  Knockycrockery  ?  "  says  she, 
"  I'll  always  call  it  Knockycrockery,"  says  she  :  and  away 
she  gallops  off  with  m.y  poor  pusheen  ;  and  the  young  lord 
galloping  after  her  !  and  Mungo  frightened  out  of  his  life, 
and  the  tears  in  his  eyes,  mewing  like  mad  !  thecratur  of 
the  world  ! 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  I  think  it  might  make  a  cat  laugh,  instead 
of  cry,  Mrs.  Quigley,  as  the  saying  is. 

MRS.  aUIGLEY,  (angrily.) 

Och !  sir,  but  it  was  no  laughing  matter  at  all,  as  you  shall 
larne  ;  for  just  as  I  was  quietly  sated  again,  and  taking  my 
tay,  I  heard  my  poor  cat  moaning  and  mewing,  like  a  Ban- 
shee, outside  the  door  sir  ;  and  when  Judy  ran  to  let  him  in, 
in  he  bounded  like  a  wild  cat  in  a  bog,  with  a  turf  at  its  tail ; 
and  would  you  believe  it  sir,  my  iligant  bran  new  cap  tied 
round  his  poor  black  face;  and  before  Judy  and  I  poked  him 
out  from  under  the  press,  troth,  you  wouldn't  have  picked 
my  cap  out  of  the  guthur. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (wiping  his  eyes.) 

Well,  Mrs.  Gluigley,  I  declare  to  you,  ma'am,  I  think  it 
all  mighty  comical ;  and  they  are  just  the  sort,  for  my  money. 
Sure,  you  would  not  have  them  like  them  Scotch  Macaskys, 
that  have  come  in  for  the  Mullavaly  property.  "  Grim 
growdies,  that  never  made  their  mother  laugh,"  as  the  say- 
ing is  ;  and  that  goes  about  spying,  and  prying,  and  calcu- 
lating, and  minding  nothing  but  the  main  chance,  ma'am. 
But  in  regard  of  the  dinner — all  the  French  cooks  in  the 
world  cannot  serve  a  good  one,  with  bad  matairials,  and  no- 
thing to  cook  them  in  ;  for  I  take  it  for  granted,  [sli/li/,]  you 
didn't  lave  an  ould  stew-pan  in  the  place  ? 


12 


MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


MRS.  aUIGLEY. 


Och !  sir,  they  wasn't  beholden  to  me,  nor  the  place  nei- 
ther, sir.  Sure,  a  whole  cart  of  coppers  came  down  from 
Dublin — they  call  it  a  batthery ;  and  fish  in  ice,  sir,  by  the 
mail ;  and  pheasants  from  their  place  in  Wales  ;  and  venison 
from  the  Lord  Lieutenant's  ;  and  a  whole  carcass"^  of  donny 
Welsh  mutton,  sir,  from  Holyhead  ! 


MR.  GALBRAITH. 


See  there  !  well,  they're  fine  people,  surely,  and  don't 
spare  money.  But  they  can't  roof  the  house,  nor  stop  the 
rat-holes,  nor  make  tight  the  windows  and  doors,  all  in  a 
rnonth  or  six  weeks  ;  and  for  the  ould  furniture,  some  of  it 
since  King  William's  time  of  glorious  memory,  and  before. 


MRS.  aUIGLEY. 


Th'  ould  furniture  !  Why,  sir,  my  lady  stood  staring  at 
my  ould  spider-table  here,  and  says,  "  Oh,  the  charmer  !  I 
gave  ten  guineas  for  one,  not  half  so  rotten,  for  Elizabeth's 
cottage  in  the  Raigent's  Park." 


MR.  GALBRAITH. 

But  I  hope,  ma'am,  you  hurried  all  the  captain's  French- 
ified new  things  into  the  castle-wing,  and  shut  it  up  as  if  it 
was  saled  Avith  wax. 


MRS.  aUIGLEY. 

O,  lave  us  alone,  Mr.  Galbraith ;  you  think  ye  are  the 
only  head  in  the  place.  Why  the  day  ye  left  us,  sir,  myself 
and  Jem  Malone,  and  ould  bothered  Tom  Hanlon  the  game- 
keeper, put  by  every  screed  of  new  furniture,  and  brought 
down  th'  ould  voyadores  and  corner  cupboards,  and  the  high- 
backed  carved  chairs,  and  the  worm-eaten  settees,  and  every 
ould  picture  and  taste  of  cracked  chayney  from  time  imme- 
morial ;  and  then  we  nailed  a  piece  of  tapestry  over  the  door, 
and  placed  a  talboy  against  it.  And  it's  into  my  lady's  room 
we  wheeled  Lady  Isabella  Sackville's  chest,  as  it  is  called, 
with  her  ould  wardrobe,  and  the  ould  gentleman's  castle 
shoots,  w^hich  I  intend  to  sell  to  the  players,  for  they  are 
my  perquisites,  by  right,  Mr.  Galbraith. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  13 

Very  good,  ma'am  ;  and  then  the  rat  in  the  box  in  the 
library,  which  Mr.  Sackville  wrote  to  have  ready  for  his 
own  sitting-room. 

MRS.    ClUIGLEY,   (holding  her  sides,   and   laughing  herself  into  a 
cougliing  fit.) 

O  dear,  Lord  save  me  !  Well,  sir,  it's  all  right ;  and  a 
good  bit  of  cheese  to  keep  the  cratur  alive  and  frisky.  I 
engage,  if  he  gets  out,  he'll  show  them  sport. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (laughing  and  rising.) 

Well,  ma'am  !  But  I  must  now  go  and  change  my 
feet,  and  dress  myself  for  an  audience.  And  I  suppose, 
Mrs.  Gluigley,  it's  with  themselves  I'll  dine,  as  in  th'  ould 
gentleman's  time,  even  when  I  was  but  a  slip  of  a  clerk  in 
the  agent's  office.     What  do  you  think,  ma'am  1 

MRS.  ClUIGLEY. 

To  be  sure,  sir,  and  why  wouldn't  )^ou,  a  magistrate  of 
this  county,  and  a  captain  of  the  Manor  Sackville  yeomanry 
corps,  and  your  sister  married  to  the  Sub-sherifl,  and  you 
living  with  the  first  and  best  of  the  county,  and  the  Honour- 
able and  Reverend  never  aisy  without  you. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Och  !  surely,  ma'am — surely  I  have  every  right  in  life ; 
only  these  English  have  sometimes  such  odd  waj^s.  But  I 
declare,  I'd  rather  be  taking  my  tay  with  you.  Widow 
duigley,  [zTt  an  insinuating  to7ie,]  than  dining  with  the  best 
in  the  land. 


MRS.  aUIGLEY,  (looks  modest.) 

Shawl  I  tack  a  bit  of  crape  round  your  hat,  Mr.  Gal- 
braith  ? 


MR.  GALBRAITH. 

I'll  be  indebted  to  you,  Mrs.  Gluigley ;  and  I  needn't 
recommend  you,  dear,  to  be  as  close  as  a  cork*  Mum's  the 
word,  ma'am. 


14  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

MRS.  aUIGLEY. 

Naboclish,  Mr.  Galbraith  !  It's  an  odd  thing,  if  friends 
and  pew-fellows  like  you  and  I,  time  immemorial,  and  good 
Protestants,  and  of  the  right  sort,  cannot  depind  on  each 
other,  and  trust  one  another,  though  it  were  w^th  their 
lives,  sir. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (taking  her  hand  tenderly.) 

Och  !  then,  I'd  trust  more  nor  my  life  with  you,  sure 
enough,  Mrs.  Quigley ;  but  time  will  tell,  ma'am  !  So  God 
be  with  you,  for  the  presint,  my  dear  friend.  I'll  try  to 
stale  down  to  tay  with  you  this  evening,  and  tell  you  which 
way  the  bull  runs. 

[They  shake  hands  with  looks  of  significant  cordiality.] 

MRS.  aUIGLEY,  (throwing  her  shoe  after  him.) 
Well,  then,  God  be  with  you — and  that  for  luck. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 
Thank  you,  ma*am. 

(Exit  Mr.  Galbraith.) 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  15 


SCENE    II. 


{The  library  at  Manor  Sackville,  a  low,  close  and  gloomy  room,  with 
a  small  bookcase,  strongly  fortified  with  rusty  wire-work,  half 
filled  with  immoveable  folios  and  quartos,  with  statutes  at  large, 
parliamentary  records,  &c,,  with  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  rac- 
ing and  Newgate  calenders,  old  almanacks,  plays,  and  polemical 
divinity;  not  very  numerous  nor  very  complete:  in  every  sense, 
an  assemblage  of  odd  volumes.  The  high,  small  windows  give 
upon  the  lawn.  Over  the  chimney-piece  hang  the  several  portraits 
of  a  horse  and  a  dog,  on  either  side  the  picture  of  a  rather  flashy 
looking  person,  in  a  full  court-dress,  of  forty  years  back,  all  evi- 
dently by  the  same  hand.  A  stand  of  arms  decorates  the  further 
wall.  The  furniture, — old  fashioned,  and  time-worn, — is  formally 
regimented  round  the  room.  In  a  curiously  carved  oak  chair, 
(called  traditionally  Lady  Isabel's  chair,)  reposes  Mr.  Sackville,  a 
man  of  distinguished  air,  in  the  prime  of  life,  with  a  fine  intellectual 
countenance,  and  an  evident  attention  to  fashionable  propriety  of 
dress.  Immediately  opposite  to  him,  on  the  extreme  edge  of  an 
high-backed  seat,  sits  Mr.  Galbraith,  much  improved  by  an  entire 
change  of  decoration,  his  shirt  collar  rising  above  his  ears,  and  his 
bob  wig  exchanged  for  a  coiflTure,  "au  ?ja<Mrc/,"  from  "the  maga- 
zine of  fashion  :  but  as  "  new  honours  cling  not  to  their  use,  but 
with  the  aid  of  time,"  Mr.  Galbraith's  " penique  blonde  cendree,''''  is 
rather  impeded  in  its  set  by  the  resistance  of  a  few  stubbles  of 
grizzled  hair  beneath  ;  and  is  any  thing  but  a  close  fit.  The  gen- 
tlemen have  just  drawn  back  from  a  large,  many-legged  table, 
which  is  covered  with  piles  of  parchments,  papers,  maps,  views, 
account-books,  memorials,  petitions,  &c.  &c.  Mr.  Sackville  is 
reading  from  a  volume  of  time-stained  manuscript — he  pauses.] 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

I  must  observe,  Mr.  Galbraith,  that  this  letter  was  ad- 
dressed, in  1693,  from  the  Irish  g-overnment  to  my  ancestor, 
who  held  the  position  in  this  country  which  I  now  fill. 

[Reads.] 

*'  There  having  been  divers  complaints  made  that  the  To- 
ries and  Rapparees  are  out  in  great  numbers  upon  their 
keeping,  robbing,  and  preying  upon  the  country,  to  the  great 
terror  and  ruin  of  many  of  their  Majesties'  good  subjects  : 
I  would  therefore  desire  you,  with  what  expedition  you  can, 
to  give  such  orders  as  you  shall  think  fit  to  the  militia  with- 

3 


10  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

in  your  county,  for  the  speedy  and  effectual,  either  taking 
or  suppressing  them. 

"  I  am, 
"  Your  most  humble  servant, 
"  Sydney. 
"  Dublin  Castle,  May  2nd,  1693."* 

Now  orthography  and  style  apart,  this  letter  appears  the 
very  type  of  that  you  have  just  read  me  from  your  friend  Sir 
Job  Blackacre. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

The  ould  letter,  Mr.  Sackville — I  see,  sir  !  what  would 
you  think  of  its  being  all  a  forgery,  sir  !  in  respect  of  its 
giving  out  that  it's  the  Tories  that's  disturbing  the  country  ? 
Sure  every  one  knows  that  it's  the  agitators — devil  a  one 
else  ! 


MR.  SACKVILLF,  (laughing.) 

Tory,  you  know,  Mr.  Galbraith,  is  an  Irish  word.  It 
was,  time  immemorial,  an  epithet  applied  to  the  disturbers  of 
public  peace,  in  common  Avith  Rapparee  ;  and  as  to  a  for- 
gery !  this  is,  you  see,  an  historical  document !  I  am  de- 
lighted to  have  discovered  this  curious  old  volume.  I  regret 
that  so  much  of  it  has  been  defaced  and  torn.  Such  frag- 
ments give  a  sort  of  literary  interest  to  the  tiresome  researches 
to  which  I  suppose  I  shall  be  doomed  for  some  days  to  come. 
[Throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair.']  I  certainly  have  an 
incapacity  for  the  mere  dry  details  of  property  and  business, 
Mr.  Galbraith,  that  requires  a  stronger  volition  to  wrestle 
with,  than  I  am  at  present  master  of.  Besides,  my  journey 
has  quite  addled  me. 


MR.  GALBRAITH,  (deferentially,  and  with  n»uch  pleased  alacrity 
of  manner.  Througliout  this  scene  a  total  change  of  accent  is 
attempted  by  this  speaker,  who  makes  a  painful  effort  to  mince 
and  disguise  his  native  brogue  ;  which  brogue,  however,  phis  fort 
que  ltd,  breaks  forth,  whenever  he  is  thrown  off  his  guard  by  sur- 
prise or  emotion.) 

I  see,  sir,  I  see,  Mr.  Sackville  :   and  why  shouldn't  you, 
sir  ?    Why  should  you  throuble  yourself  at  all,  at  all  ?    What 

*  Historical. 


MAlNOR  sackville.  17 

is  the  use  of  greet  esteets,  but  to  lave  gintlemm  of  rank  and 
fortune  to  cultiveet  their  moinds,  and  enjoy  their  privit 
amusements  ? 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Funded  property,  sir,  has,  in  that  respect,  very  decided 
advantages.  The  dividends  paid  to  the  day.  No  contact 
with  the  chicanery  of  the  law  ;  and  nothing  to  do  with 
stewards,  agents,  or  attornies.  But  an  inheritance  of  estates, 
scattered  over  England  and  Wales,  and,  above  all,  this  re- 
cent succession  to  a  remote  Irish  property,  renders  the  for- 
tunate unfortunate  owner  as  much  adscriptus  glebcE  as  a 
Russian  serf!  V/hat  an  inextricable  labyrinth  of  debts  and 
engagements  has  my  predecessor  left  behind  him,  in  this 
schedule  ? 


MR.  GALBRAITH,  (with  enthusiasm.) 

Och !  sir,  he  was  a  foine  gintleman,  take  him  in  what 
weey  you  will,  Mr.  Sackville.  And  though,  in  his  early 
dees,  a  bit  of  a  reek,  like  other  young  Irish  gintlemin  of 
fashion  and  fortune — a  six-bottle  man,  a  great  cherokee,  and 
the  loik,  still,  sir,  a  better  Christian,  and  a  better  magistrate, 
or  a  more  loyal,  Protestant  gintleman  never  braithed  the 
breath  ofloif.     \_Puts* his  handkerchief  to  his  ei/es.'j 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Humph !  I  never  saw  him  but  once,  and  that  by  chance, 
in  London.  /  thought  him  violent,  illiberal,  and  extremely 
vulgar  ;  though  certainly  handsome — very  like  that  ill- 
painted  picture.  After  my  aunt's  foolish  marriage,  (for  con- 
sidering that  she  gave  the  life-use  of  an  estate  of  ten  thou- 
sand a  year  to  a  mere  Irish  fortune-hunter,  it  was  foolish,) 
I  never  saw  even  her,  till  a  year  before  her  death.  Poor 
soul  !  Her  separation  from  her  husband,  a  few  years  after 
marriage,  proved  how  mistaken  she  had  been  in  the  object 
of  her  choice. 


MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Och!  Mr.  Sackville,  you  know  sir,   (with  humility  be  it 
spoken,)  there  are  always  little  faults  on  both  sides.     Mr. 


18  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

Fitzgerald  Sackville  was  mighty  gay  and  hearty  ;  and  your 
leet  excellent  aunt  was  a  little  sairious,  and  the  laste  teest 
in  loif  a  seint ;  and  so  she  left  the  pleece  to  himself,  and  re- 
tired to  Bath  to  the  new  light. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (drawing  up,  and  rather  coldly.) 

It  is  an  ungracious  subject, — we'll  drop  it,  sir,  if  you 
please.  \^A  short  pause,  in  which  Mr.  Galbraith  picks  up 
his  hat,  twists  it  in  his  hands,  and  hems,  waiting  with  defer- 
ence  for  Mr.  Sackville  to  change  the  conversation.  Mr. 
Sackville  takes  up  an  old  record,  and  continues.^  Oh  !  by- 
the-by,  Mr.  Galbraith,  although  I  am  not  yet  quite  equal  to 
the  prose  of  my  Irish  property,  I  am  already  rather  deep 
in  its  poetry.  I  have  been  going  through  a  regular  course 
of  your  antiquities,  and  find  that  I  am  master  of  some  clas- 
sic ground.  I  always  knew  that  my  maternal  ancestors, 
(and  it  is  curious  that  this  fine  estate  should  always  have 
gone  in  the  female  line,)  came  to  their  Irish  property  through 
the  Villiers,  and  owed  their  fortunes  to  the  influence  of  that 
bold,  bad  man,  the  favourite  of  our  Charles  I.  You  are 
aware,  sir,  that  in  1626,  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  made  a 
grant  of  this  estate,  and  that  it  was  conveyed  by  patent  to 
Sir  Henry  Sackville,  on  the  resignation  of  a  Sir  Edward  Vil- 
liers, to  hold  in  capite  for  the  service  of  one  knight's  fee. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 
Fees  !  oh  !  yes,  sir,  I  heard  tell  of  that. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (still  reading  from  the  record.) 

The  lands  were  then  erected  into  the  Manor  of  Sackville, 
or  Mount  Sackville,  with  many  large  privileges,  on  condition 
of  building  a  castle  sixty  feet  long  and  twenty-four  in  breadth, 
with  a  bawn  of  four  hundred  feet  inclosed  by  a  wall.  Now, 
what  is  your  opinion,  Mr.  Galbraith,  (for  I  take  it  for  granted, 
that  you  are  too  good  an  Irishman,  not  to  be  an  antiquarian,) 
do  you  think  the  old  castle,  a  little  lower  down,  on  the  bank 
of  the  river,  which  we  see  from  our  bed-room  window,  is  the 
castle  alluded  to  ;  or  that  bit  of  a  gable  with  the  fine  arch, 
which  terminates  the  left  wing  of  this  rambling  edifice? 

MR,  GALBRAITH,  (completely  puzzled.) 
Why,  thin,  whichever  you  plaze,  Mr.  Sackville. 


MANOR    SACKYILLE.  19 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (abstractedly  and  not  listening.) 

Our  estate  is  a  slice  of  the  lands  of  the  O'Rourkes,  who 
probably  themselves  sliced  it  off  from  the  property  of  some 
older  predatory  chieftain. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (petulantly.) 

Och !  begg-ing  your  pardon,  Mr.  Sackville,  not  at  all,  sir, 
never  was.  It  never  was  papist  land,  but  the  Sackville  pro- 
perty, time  immemorial;  [Mr.  Sackville  seniles;]  and  has 
come  down,  sir,  to  you,  a  trifle  of  debts  and  the  like  errors 
excepted,  a  virgin  estate.  Thanks  I  must  sey,  to  good  egents, 
that  is  old  Mr.  Healey  and  your  humble  servant.  [Boiving 
loic]  For  with  regard  to  Captain  Williams,  the  nominal 
agent,  who  was  appointed  leetly  by  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  Sackville, 
and  who  is  gone  to  travel  for  his  heahh,  it's  little  he  knows 
about  it.  And  when  old  Mr.  Healey  died,  it  was  thought 
and  said  that  not  a  man  in  the  barony  was  fit  to  stand  in  his 
shoes,  but  the  sub-agent,  Jeremy  Galbraith.  Indeed  the  old 
gentleman  alwa3-s  intended,  as  the  Honourable  and  Reverend 
often  told  me,  that  when  Mr.  Healy  went,  Jeremiah  Galbraith 
vv'ould  be  the  man  ;  and  it  was  to  the  entire  ameesement  of 
the  country  round,  that  Captain  Williams  arrived  and  took 
on  him  last  year, — a  man  who  has  lived  so  long  in  foreign 
parts,  and  is  no  great  friend  to  church  or  state, 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (haughtily.) 

Mr.  Galbraith  ! — Captain  Williams  is  my  friend,  and  was 
appointed  at  my  recommendation.  I  chose  him,  not  because 
he  is  very  deep  in  Croker,  or  aufait  to  all  the  coarse  details 
of  Irish  business,  and  competent  to  enter  into  the  petty  intri- 
gues and  party  politics  incidental  to  the  locality.  For  all 
that,  Ireland  supplies  instruments  in  plenty  : — but  I  selected 
him  because  he  is  a  liberal,  enlightened,  and  accomplished 
gentleman  ;  because  I  felt,  that  whenever  I  should  succeed  to 
the  property,  he  would  assist  me  in  civilizing  the  tone  of  so- 
ciety, and  in  bettering  the  condition  of  the  lower  orders.  Cap- 
tain Williams  is  an  Irishman,  but  he  is  English-bred,  and, 
in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word,  that  estimable  and  invaluable 
character,  an  educated  and  travelled  Irishman.  Captain 
Williams  will  bring  to  his  agency  European  views,  and  spread 
them  among  your  illiberal  and  (as  far  as  I  have  seen)  illite- 

3* 


.^  MANOR  SACKVILLE. 

rate  country  gentlemen,  who  want  model  schools  for  their 
instruction,  quite  as  much  as  the  lower  orders,  whom  they  so 
constantly  revile. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (turning  his  hat  into  various  shapes,  and  with  a 
countenance,  in  which  confusion  appears  worse  confounded.) 

Och !  I  see,  Mr.  Sackville — European  viev\'s — surely  that 
will  be  very  ornamental.  [Poi7its  to  a  print  in  an  old  hlack 
frame.']  There,  sir,  is  a  view  of  Shannon  harbour,  done  after 
a  drawing  by  a  young  brother  of  mine,  who  is  looking  out  for 
a  surveyorship. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (still  pursuing  his  own  idea.) 

Besides,  sir,  in  Captain  Williams,  I  shall  have  an  agree- 
able companion :  for,  (pardon  me,)  I  must  have  some  com- 
pensation for  living  in  Ireland.  It  is  a  great  transition,  Mr. 
Galbraith,  from  the  centre  of  social  civilization  and  refine- 
ments, arts,  letters,  and  European  interests,  to  these  wild  and 
dreary  regions,  to  live  among  a  people  the  most  rude  and 
lawless. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (eagerly.) 

Ah  !  there  you  are  par-feckt-ly  right,  Mr.  Sackville,  sir,  in 
regard  of  the  raigion,  as  you  observed,  sir,  surely  ;  the  trees 
blowing  all  one  way  ;  and  the  limestone  bottom,  from  Shee- 
more  to  Dromahane,  and  hea\y  rains  and  floods  sweeping 
down  from  the  mountains,  since  the  time  of  Noah,  and  before  ; 
only  just  your  own  demesne  :  that  I  may  seey  is  my  own 
iday  of  surface-draining.  And  in  regard  of  the  lawless 
people,  sir,  you  are  par-feckt-ly  right  there,  sir,  for  the  finest 
pisantry  in  the  world,  as  the  agitaytors  call  them,  are  just  a 
pack  of  bloody,  murthering,  papist  villians,  and  care  no  more 
for  taking  the  life  of  a  Christian,  than  if  he  was  a  Jew,  or  a 
brute  baste. 


MR.  SACKVILLE,  (smiling.) 

But,  Mr.  Galbraith,  we  must  not  forget  that  these  poor 
ignorant  creatures  are  only  what  foregone  events  have  made 
them.  Is  there  in  the  world  [icarming  ijito  vehemence)  such 
an  history  as  that  of  Ireland  ?    Conquered,  (or  crushed  at 


MANOR  SACKVILLE.  21 

least,)  by  a  race  as  ferocious,  though  more  powerful,  and  fur- 
ther advanced  in  the  lines  of  civilization  than  themselves, — 
hermetically  shut  up  for  ages  against  all  improvement,  not 
more  by  their  remote  geographical  position,  than  by  the  jea- 
lousy of  their  rulers — subject  for  centuries  to  a  proconsular 
government,  with  two  religions  to  support,  and  one  to  fight 
for — harassed  by  civil  wars, — for  ever  incurring,  and  for  ever 
deploring  the  forfeitures  of  their  propert}^, — addicted  to  that 
worst  of  vices,  habitual  inebriety,  in  which  they  are  encour- 
aged by  their  sordid  rulers  ; — and  observe,  Mr.  Galbraith, 
on  your  own  showing,  this  brutal  vice  of  the  lower  orders 
was  the  accomplishment  of  the  higher  ; — since  your  late 
patron  owed  his  elevation  in  society  to  his  being  a  six-bottle 
man.  But  the  whole  story  of  your  country,  Mr.  Galbraith, 
is  frightful  ;  and  its  present  state  anything  but  encouraging 
to  a  new  resident,  however  good  his  intentions,  or  sanguine 
his  hopes. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

You  are  par-feckt-ly  right,  Mr.  Sackville ;  and  it's  the 
wonder  of  the  world,  that  a  fine  English  gentleman  of  fashion, 
with  his  house  in  Birkeley  Square,  and  his  iligant  villies  on 
the  banks  of  the  Tims,  would  be  after  coming  over  here,  at 
all  at  all,  when  all  might  just  as  well  be  done  by  an  egent 
that  knows  the  pleece  intirely. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

And  then,  if  one's  time  and  trouble  were  devoted  simply  to 
bettering  the  condition  of  the  poor  people — ^but  when  one 
thinks  of  the  details  of  Irish  property  and  country  business  ! 
what  with  justice  work  and  grand  jury  work,  peace  preserva- 
tion work,  and  endless  correspondence  Avith  government, 
with  factions  to  fight,  and  calumnies  to  answer 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (interrupting  him  eagerly.) 

For  the  matter  of  justice  work,  Mr.  Sackville,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  sir,  Irish  gintlemen  do  just  as  much  or  little  as 
they  plaze,  and  as  for  the  care  of  the  esteete,  I  believe  after 
all,  you  will  find  that  a  good  Irish  egent  that  knows  the 
pleece  and  the  people,  will  take  that  trouble  off  your  hands, 
to  your  intire  satisfaction,  sir.     All  that  you  need  do  in  per- 


5«i  MANOR  SACKVILLE. 

son  will  be  just  to  be  after  signing  the  laces,  when  they  are 
put  before  you  ;  and  upon  my  credit,  the  less  you  see  of  the 
villians,  here,  the  better,  sir. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

I  really  cannot  agree  with  you  there,  Mr.  Galbraith.  It 
is  my  duty  to  reside  here  some  part  of  the  year  ;  and  if  I  do, 
it  is  not  for  the  purpose  of  performing  my  obligations  by 
deputy.  Indeed  I  feel — I  have  long  felt — a  strong  interest  in 
this  unhappy  country,  which  I  am  sure  requires  all  the  zeal 
and  ability  of  its  landed  proprietors.  It  is  no  easy  task  to 
remedy  abuses  so  deeply  rooted,  and  to  raise  the  people  by 
an  education  of  habits  to  the  level  of  human  beings.  What 
unaccommodated  wretchedness  have  I  observed  already ! 
No  Avonder  that  you  should  be  in  such  a  disturbed  state.  I 
am  told  that  at  this  moment  you  are  very  bad. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (with  eagerness.) 

Devil  a  worse,  sir,  yet  not  more  now  than  ever. — Time 
immemorial, — wasn't  it  always  so  ?  a  house  burned  here, 
and  a  paceable  tinant  carded  there  ;  one  villian  murthering 
another,  for  teeking  land  over  his  head — proctors  shot  like 
crows, — to  say  nothing  of  the  police.  But  for  all  that,  sir, 
Mrs,  Quigley  and  I  sleeps  here  like  bins  in  their  roost,  par- 
feckt-ly  secure  ;  with  every  door  and  window  open,  and  not 
so  much  as  a  tay spoon  taken  throughout  the  year.  Oh  ! 
they  know  who  they  have  to  dale  with,  the  ruffians  of  the 
world  ! 


MR.  SACKVILLE,  (laughing.) 

And  that  I  suppose  is  the  reason  why  there  is  not  a  lock 
in  the  house  in  working  condition.  I  was  obliged  to  set  the 
great  arm-chair  against  the  door  of  my  bed-room,  last  night, 
to  prevent  its  clapping,  like  a  rattle  in  a  cherry  orchard. 
Pray,  Mr.  Galbraith,  send  for  a  smith  and  other  workmen 
directly,  and  above  all,  for  a  few  bell-hangers. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (suppressing  a  smile.) 

A  few  bell-hangers  !  give  you  my  honour,  there  isn't  a 
bell-hanger  within  twenty  miles,  Mr.  Sackville,  of  the  place. 


MANOR   SACKVILLE.  23 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (carelessly.) 

Then  send  to  Dublin.  How  could  the  late  resident  live 
in  such  discomfort  and  slovenly  disorder  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Why,  sir,  the  late  Mr.  Fitzgerald  Sackville  was  so  much 
engeeged  with  public  business,  he  could  not  give  much 
attintion  to  his  own  affairs.  He  was  at  the  head  of  every- 
thing that  was  for  the  pace  and  prosperity  of  the  pleece  ; 
and  many  a  low  fellow  that  is  giving  out  the  law,  sir, 
and  is  greet  agitaytors  now,  daren't  then  say  their  loif 
is  their  own.  It  isn't  then  that  Father  Everard,  (the  ould 
Jesuit,)  would  be  teeking  on  him  a  corresponding  with  the 
government  agin  the  Honourable  and  Reverend  Protestant 
Sunday-schools. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

I  do  think,  Mr.  Galbraith,  that  if  the  time  and  money 
which  you  Irish  gentry  contribute  to  fomenting  religi- 
ous distinctions,  and  nonsensical  party  feuds,  supporting 
orange-lodges,  distributing  tracts,  and  nourishing  hatreds, 
were  turned  to  bettering  the  condition,  not  only  of  the  peo- 
ple, but  of  yourselves,  you  might  do  infinite  good  instead  of 
infinite  harm.  Before  I  leave  this  country,  I  hope  to  see 
every  tenant  of  mine — not  as  Henry  the  Fourth,  you  must 
remember,  said,  with  un  jpoulet^  au  pofy  les  DimancheSj  but 
with  a  little  meat,  of  some  sort  or  other,  on  every  Sunday  in 
the  year. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (with  a  very  singular  expression  of  countenance.) 

I  see,  sir,  I  see.  You  are  par-feckt-Iy  right,  Mr.  Sackville. 
That  is  just  what  your  worthy  predecessor  would  be  after 
saying ;  and  if  I  might  meke  so  bold,  sir,  mee  I  ask  how 
long  it  mey  be  your  intintion  and  my  lady's  to  stee  at  Manor 
Sackville  ? 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

That,  Mr.  Galbraith,  depends  on  circumstances.  My  in- 
tention was  merely  to  run  over,  take  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the 
estate,  and  bring  down  an  architect  from  Dublin  to  make 


24  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

plans  and  estimates  for  rebuilding  the  house, — examine 
roughly  the  condition  of  the  tenantry  and  labourers — lay 
the  foundation  for  a  school  of  agriculture,  (what  the  Ger- 
mans call  a  Furstlehr  institut) — you  understand  German, 
perhaps,  Mr.  Galbraith 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Oh,  I  do,  sir, — that  is,  I  have  an  iday  what  that  manes, 
though  I'm  not  over  'cute  at  the  dead  languages. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

In  short,  sir,  to  obtain  as  much  local  information  as 

may  suffice  to  set  things  going,  and  commence  a  residence 
after  my  own  tastes  ;  and  then  return  to  England  for  a  couple 
of  years,  while  the  works  were  going  on  ;  for  as  it  is 
my  design  to  live  in  Ireland  for  eight  months  in  every  year, 
[Mr.  Galbraith  opens  his  eyes  ;]  I  must  have  a  suitable  resi- 
dence. Such  was  my  original  plan ;  but  Lady  Emily  and 
her  sister  seemed  so  much  delighted  with  Ireland,  that  our 
actual  stay  here  may  now  be  prolonged  beyond  our  first 
design.  Instead  of  building  an  entirely  new  house,  I  am, 
on  inspection,  more  inclined  to  repair  and  make  additions  to 
the  present  edifice,  in  an  appropriate  style  of  antiquity, — not 
quite  as  remote  as  the  halls  of  O'Rourke, — but  certainly  not 
more  recent  than  the  style  of  Elizabeth. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (sighing  deeply.) 

Surely,  sir,  surely — that  would  be  mighty  grand, — ^that's 
if  you  raaly  mane  to  live  in  Ireland,  which  you  would  only 
repint  once,  and  that  Avould  be  for  the  rest  of  your  life. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

I  don't  agree  w4th  you,  Mr.  Galbraith, — and  this  is  a 
point  to  which  I  beg  especially  to  draw  your  attention. — My 
object  in  coming  here  is  to  benefit  the  people  committed  by 
Providence  to  my  care  ;  for  I  cannot  conceive  that  either  the 
laws  of  God  authorize,  or  the  passions  of  society  will  much 
longer  permit,  the  Irish  proprietors  to  maintain  their  princely 
holdings,  in  an  utter  neglect  of  the  millions  by  whose  indus- 
try their  property  is  rendered  productive.     As  a  matter  of 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  26 

the  plainest  self-interest,  I  shall  set  earnestly  to  the  task  of 
improving  not  only  the  moral,  but  the  animal  condition  of 
the  peasantry. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

I  see,  sir  : — you  subscribe,  I  suppose,  of  coorse,  to  the 
Kildare-street  Society  ? 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

I  believe  I  do  ;  I  have  subscribed  to  so  many  things,  by 
the  advice  and  desire  of  my  Irish  friends  in  London,  of  all 
parties,  that  I  really  cannot  remember  the  names  of  all.  The 
multiplicity  of  these  charities,  by-the-bye,  is  a  sad  evidence 
of  the  disorganized  state  of  the  country  ;  and  I  am  sure, 
Mr.  Galbraith,  in  your  better  knowledge  of  Ireland,  you 
will  agree  with  me  in  the  wish,  that  a  thorough  philosophic 
and  statesmanlike  reform  of  its  institutions  may  soon  render 
such  quackish  expedients,  and  feeble  mezzi-terminij  wholly 
unnecessary. 

MR,  GALBRAITH,  (puzzled.) 
Och,  sir,  surely — you  are  par-feckt-ly  right,  Mr.  Sackville. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (earnestly.) 

There  is  a  want  among  you  Irish  gentry  [Mr,  Galbraith, 
boios]  of  seizing  the  Irish  question  in  all  its  wholeness, — at 
least  so  it  appears  to  me ;  (though  I  premise  that  I  am  no 
politician  :)  and  you  have  an  inveterate  habit  of  taking  shelter 
in  temporizing  schemes,  which,  by  frittering  away  time  and 
money,  divert  patriotism  from  its  true  channels,  and  involve 
first  principles  in  an  endless  imbroglio  of  incidents  and  con- 
tingencies. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (fidgetting  in  his  chair.) 

Surely,  Mr.  Sackville — the  peepists  and  the  agitaytors 
are  mighty  greet  schaimers,  as  you  say,  and  unless  govern- 
ment .... 

MR.  SAC^CVILLE. 

The  present  government  is  bound  by  the  errors  of  many 
barbarous  centuries  of  legislation  ;  and  an  infinity  of  public 


36  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

vices  and  private  interests  have  sprung  up,  which  at  every 
step  impede  its  efforts  to  reform :  out  of  this  monstrous  state 
of  things,  two  parties  have  sprung  up  equally  hostile  to  real 
improvement ;  forming  the  opposite  extremes,  which  meet  at 
the  same  point  of  ignorance  and  anarchy,  and  labour  by  differ- 
ent means  to  consolidate  and  perpetuate  the  poverty  and  de- 
gradation of  their  common  country. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (recovering  his  presence  of  mind.) 

You  are  par-feckt-ly  right,  sir  ;  and  the  barony  will  have 
no  quiet  until  Father  Callaghan's  patriots  are  sent  out  of  it,  or 
put  down  entirely.  Though,  to  be  sure,  there  is  them  that 
will  tell  3'-ou,  if  they  can  get  at  your  ear,  sir,  that  the  Hon- 
ourable and  Reverend  is  to  blame,  as  being  a  little  too  loyal, 
and  too  orange,  as  they  say  ;  but  he  manes  well,  and  he  is,  as 
well  becomes  his  cloth,  a  raal  good  Protestant. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (a  little  puzzled  in  his  turn.) 

Oh!  you  are  alluding  to  your  local  politics.  In  them,  Mr. 
Galbraith,  I  shall  take  very  little  part, — none  whatever,  in- 
deed. It  is  a  little,  dirty,  Augean  stable,  with  the  filth  of 
which  I  am  determined  not  to  meddle. 


MR.  GALBRAITH,  (quite  thrown  out.) 

The  stable,  sir, — as  you  plaze,  Mr.  Sackville,  you  are  the 
master,  sir.  The  first  stone  of  them  fine  ould  ofifices  was  laid 
by  your  faymale  ancistor,  the  Lady  Isabel  Sackville,  that  kept 
the  place  in  pace  and  prosperity,  as  th'ould  people  tell,  until 
Oliver's  time.     You  know,  sir. 


Bould  Oliver  Cromwell, 
He  did  her  pum-well, 
And  made  a  breach  in  her  battlements, 


as  the  song  says. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (laughing.) 

Poor  lady  ! — a  bad  recompence  ;  but  pretty  much  the  his- 
tory of  the  resident  proprietors  of  all  times.  [Flings  himself 
back  in  his  chair,  yawning.]  By  Jove,  when  I  think  of  such 
Si  poco  curante  fellow  as  myself  running  into  such  mill-horse 
drudgery  as  that  of  an  Irish  country  gentleman — giving  up 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  27 

the  dole e  far  niente  of  a  London  and  villa  life,  I  must  say, 
Mr.  Galbraith,  I  merit  a  place  in  the  Irish  sanctology,  more 
than  half  the  saiats  in  its  voluminous  catalogfue. 


MR.  GALBRAITH,  (once  more  lost,  and  apostrophizing  himself.) 

Divil  a  bit  of  me  understands  one  word  in  ten  he  says.  [  To 
Mr.  Sackvillt.]  Sure,  Mr.  Sackville,  you  are  par-feckt-ly 
right,  sir.  The  seinls  are  the  ruin  of  the  pleece  entirely ; 
and  as  much  agen  the  raal  Christhian  religion,  as  by  law- 
established,  as  the  Pope  himself. 

[Mr.  Sackville,  a  little  tired,  rises  and  stands  with  his  back  to  the 
fire ;  Mr.  Galbraiih,  hat  in  hand,  rises  also.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 
Pray,  Mr.  Galbraith,  whereabouts  is  the  library  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Why  sure,  sir,  this  is  the  library,  where  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
Sackville  did  all  the  business  of  the  barony. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

This  !  I  thought  it  Avas  a  sort  of  office.  But  what  then  is 
become  of  the  books  ?  Surely  that  shelf  of  odd  volumes  was 
not  the  whole  stock  of  Manor  Sackville  reading,  was  it  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Och,  in  regard  of  the  books,  them's  odd  enough,  surely, 
some  of  them.  Mr.  Fitzgerald  Sackville  had  all  Joe  Miller 
by  heart,  and  was  mighty  comical  at  times,  after  dinner. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (smiling.) 
But,  I  suppose,  he  was  no  great  reader,  Mr.  Galbraith  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Why  no,  sir  ;  not  what  you  would  call  a  book-worm.  He 
used  to  say  he  thought  reading  taidious  ;  and  that  a  man  must 
have  little  to  do,  that  would  sit  down  wirh  a  book  in  his 
hand  :  and,  indeed,    what  with  the  newspeepers,  and  the 

4 


28  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

esteet,  and  county  business,  and  sporting-  and  hunting,  and 
going  up  to  the  Curragh,  and  the  greet  company  he  kept  at 
home  and  abroad,  he  had  little  time  for  looking  in  a  book; 
barring  on  a  rainy  day,  or  the  likes. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

You  have  a  tolerably  good  neighbourhood  here,  I  am  told, 
— that  is,  within  ten  miles  round. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

A  greet  neighbourhood,  sir,  on  both  sides  the  mountains, 
and  a  fine  military  road  acrass  thim  ;  and  the  quality  live 
most  shuperbly.  My  leedy  will  have  them  all  down  upon 
her  to  dee.  They  were  coming  yesterday  to  have  the  honour 
of  weeting  on  her,  only  for  the  rain  : — that's  the  Honourable 
and  Reverend's  family. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Pray,  who  is  this  Honourable  and  Reverend  ?  I've  been 
looking  over  the  shower  of  petitions  which  Avere  thrust  into 
the  chariot  yesterday;  and  there  is  one  of  them,  in  which 
that  singular  designation  appears,  coupled  v^ilh  a  case  of 
horrible  oppression  in  the  matter  of  tithe. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (rather  agitated.) 

Och,  th'  informing  villians  !  against  the  Honourable  and 
Reverend,  and  he  the  most  charitable  clergyman  in  the 
county,  and  a  raal  and  undoubted  gintleman  besides,  and 
married  to  the  bishop's  daughter.  Th'  ungreetful  mischief- 
meekers  !  There's  a  return  for  his  schools,  and  his  bibles, 
and  tracts  !  and  Mrs.  Polypus's  chaney  roses,  and  creepers, 
and  white-washing  th'  outsides  of  their  cabins,  and  taching 
ihem  to  tombore  ! 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Well,  I  hope  these  representations  against  your  friend  will 
turn  out  to  be  exaggerated,  if  not  wholly  a  mistake.  For, 
if  true,  it  would  be  a  disgrace  to  the  church,  which,  at  this 
moment,  wants  no  such  misdeeds  to  answer  for. — I  shall  in- 
quire further  into  the  business  ;  and  if  I  find  a  tenant   of 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  29 

mine  thus  scandalously  wronged,  I  shall  do  my  best  to  pro- 
cure him  substantial  justice,  though  it  were  against  the  bench 
of  bishops  themselves. 


MR.  GALBRAITH,  (lifting  up  his  eyes.) 

Agen  the  binch  of  bishops  !  Lord  bless  us  !  I  know  the 
informer,  Mr.  Sackville,  well,  and  a  mighty  troublesome 
fellow  he  is,  at  any  rate  ;  and  the  blackist  of  peepists.  None 
other  would  gainsay  th'  Honourable  and  Reverend  any  way, 
who  does  the  greatest  of  good  in  the  country. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

If  the  poor  fellow's  not  of  our  religion,  I  don't  wonder 
that  he  should  feel  so  sore.  It  is  bad  enough  for  him  to  pay 
his  dues  to  the  clergy  of  another  faith,  ivithout  being  visited 
by  rigour  beyond  the  law  for  one  he  does  not  profess.  Send 
the  man  to  me,  to-morrow  morning  ;  and,  Mr.  Galbraith, 
give  the  widow  who  complains  that  her  cow  was  distrained, 
a  couple  of  guineas,  and  a  receipt  for  the  last  half  year's 
rent.  [Rings  the  bell  and  orders  his  horsesJ]  Mr.  Galbraith, 
you  will  dine  with  us — eight  o'clock. 

(As  Mr.  Sackville  takes  his  hat  and  gloves,  the  door  opens,  and  Buou 
enters,  frisking  and  bounding,  and  ringing  his  little  bell.  He  is 
followed  by  a  young  and  very  pretty  personage,  who  stops  at  the 
door,  and  with  a  face  radiant  in  the  beauty  of  cheerfulness  and  ani- 
mation, asks  childishly, 

May  I  cDme  in — yes,  or  no  ? 
[Mr.  Sackville  advances,  taking  her  hand  with  an  air  of  gallantry.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Yes,  to  be  sure,  love. 

[Mr.  Galbraith  exhibits  a  look  of  unfeigned  amazement,  and  irrepressi- 
ble archness.  The  pretty  personage,  whom  he  takes  ibr  the  Eng- 
lish chambermaid,  is  dressed  in  what  appears  to  be  an  English 
stamped  linen  gown,  and  a  little  round-eared  cap,  such  as  are  worn 


ip,         .      , .  .^  - 

from  the  magazines  of  Victorine  and  Herbaut.  She  is  accompanied 
by  a  coquetish  waiting-maid,  dressed  nearly  in  the  same  way, 
but  with  the  addition  of  a  black  silk  apron  5  who  having  deposited 
a  packet  of  dresses  on  a  chair,  asks, 


30  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

Miladi,  a-t-elle  besoin  de  moi  ? 

[She  is  nodded  off  with  a  significant  smile,  and  ^^  AlleZy  allez,  Just- 
ine ; "  and  exit.J 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Mr.  Galbraith,  I  must  present  you  to  Lady  Emily  Sack- 
ville. — Mr.  Galbraith,  love,  my  aunt's  prud^  homme,  the 
sense-keeper  of  Manor  Sackville,  and  locum  tenens  of  my 
friend  Captain  Williams.  Mr.  Galbraith, — Lady  Emily 
Sackville,  who,  I  assure  you,  is  very  desirous  to  make  your 
acquaintance. 

[Mr  Galbraith  first  draws  up  in  amazement,  and  then  bows  down 
in  profound  subserviency  :  going  through  all  the  figures  of  liis  five 
positions  as  be  scrape?,  and  waves  his  hat.  Lady  Emily  looks  at 
him,  with  a  pleased  curiosity,  but  with  the  least  in  the  world  of 
ridicule,  elicited  by  his  low  and  ludicrous  salams] 


LADY  EMILY,  (familiarly.) 

Mr.  Gilbraith,  I  am  exceedingly  happy  to  meet  you  :  you 
were  the  very  person  I  wanted  to  see  and  talk  to.  You  are 
to  be  my  prud'  homme,  now,  observe  I  I've  such  quantities 
of  things  to  speak  to  you  about  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Oh,  my  leedy, — it's  too  great  honour  intirely.  Whatever 
your  leedy  plazes  and  orders,  surely  must  be  done. 

LADY  EMILY. 

That  dear  old  Irish  Mrs.  0'Q,uigley  gives  me  such  a 
charming  account  of  you,  you  have  no  idea  !  She  says  you 
are  such  an  excellent,  useful  person ! 

MR.  GALBRAITH,   (bowing  and  smirking.) 

Och  !  Mrs.  Gluigley  is  too  good  intirely ;  your  leedyship 
does  me  high  honour,  ma'am.  And  she  is  a  good  woman 
herself,  and  a  gentle-vv^oman  bred  and  born. 

LADY  EMILY,  (eagerly.) 
Oh  she  does,   indeed!  she  sa^'S  I  can  get  nothing  done 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  *SO 

I  don't  know  how  it  is,  in  London,  somehow,  one  knows 
every-body's  name  :  don't  you  think  so,  Mr. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Indeed  I  do,  my  leedy — you  are  par-feckt-ly  right ;   and 
why  not  ? 


LADY  EMILY. 

But  Mr. — [she  pauses  ;  and  then  in  a  soothing  toiie] — no>v 
what  is,  once  for  all,  your  7iice  name  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (a  little  mortified,  and  petulantly.) 

Why  then,  my  leedy,  once  for  all,  Jerry  Galbraith,  of 
Maryville,  Sally  Noggin — with  your  leedyship's  good  lave. 

LADY  EMILY. 

Mr.  Galbraith  !.  But  why  is  it  not  Mac  Rory,  or  Crohore 
of  the  Bill-hook,  or  something  with  an  O,  or  a  Mac,  like  the 
names  in  the  novels  ?  I  thought,  when  I  came  to  Ireland,  I 
should  have  nothing  but  O's  and  Macs,  and  names  ending  in 
aughs  and  doughs. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 
Not  at  all,  my  leedy  ;  only  the  peepists  and  the  pisantry. 

LADY  EMILY. 
The  papists  !  what  papists  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

-  Why  the  Romans,  my  leedy.  The  gintry  of  the  country 
have  no  such  low  neams  at  all  at  all, — that's  the  Protestants, 
ma'atn  ;  (for  all  the  esteated  gintry,  and  greet  families,  and 
thim  attached  to  church  and  steat,  and  king  and  constitution, 
and  of  the  right  way,  are  Protestants,  every  mother's  son  of 
them,  time  immemorial,  since  iver  the  Glorious  and  Immor- 
tal first  set  foot  in  the  pleece.  Och  !  the  right  sort  are  aisily 
known,  my  leedy,  from  the  peepists,  by  name  and  neature, 
and  it's  with  the  likes  of  thim,  your  leedyship  will  be  after 
living  here. 


36 


MANOR  SACKVILLE. 


LADY  EMILY,  (interrupting  him  impatiently.) 

But  I  don't  want  to  live  with  those  people.  I  want  some- 
thino;'  so  very  Irish,  you  know  ;  such  as  one  sees  on  the 
stage,  and  in  the  Irish  novels,  and  that  do  such  funny  things, 
and  are  so  amusing.  Haven't  we  any  papists  at  all  on  our 
estates  ? 


MR.  GALBRAITH,  (with  a  peculiar  draw  up  of  his  mouth  and  eye- 
brow.) 

Plinty,  my  leedy.  All  the  pisantry,  to  a  man,  are  the 
blackest  of  peepists. 

LADY  EMILY. 

Oh  !  I  am  delighted  !  I  will  go  and  see  them  all.  I  knoAV 
I  shall  so  like  a  black  papist  !  Pray  what  is  the  costume 
here  ?  Do  you  know,  I  have  an  idea  in  my  head,  Mr.  Gil- 
lespie ;  I  have  told  you,  I  mean  to  dress  them  all  like  the 
peasantry  of  the  Campagna  :  for,  you  know,  we  are  come  to 
improve,  and  do  all  the  good  we  can.  I  am  dying  to  do 
good  here  ;  and  we  have  but  six  weeks  to  stay,  so  now  you 
must  help  us.  Do  you  think  the  poor  people  would  exchange 
their  old  national  dress  for  one  more  picturesque  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (with  a  humorous  smile.) 

Troth  !  I'm  sure  they  would,  my  leedy,  with  all  the  veins  : 
and  sorrow  much  trouble  that  would  teak  them.  For  few 
has  more  nor  two  suits  ; — that  is,  put  an,  and  teak  oif ;  and 
not  that  same  always. 

LADY  EMILY. 

Well,  that  then  is  settled.  I'll  show  you  the  model-dress. 
All  the  materials  must  be  Irish,  you  know.  Only  consider 
what  good  it  icill  do  !  I  don't  know  yet  how  many  thousand 
yards  of  stuff  and  cloth  it  will  take ;  but,  I  believe  there  is 
nothino-  like  encourag-insf  the  Irish  manufacture. 


MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Sorrow  a  thing,  my  leedy.     Oh  !  the  manufactures  are  the 
thing. 


MANOR  SACKVILLE.  37 

LADY  EMILY. 

Especially  the  Irish  tabinets  ;  and  I  have  been  thinking, 
as  the  corsage  takes  such  a  very  little  bit,  that  we  might  treat 
the  women  to  a  corsagt  of  Irish  poplin,  if  you  have  no  objec- 
tion. 

MR.  GALBRAITF. 
Not  the  laste  in  loif,  my  leedy.     Whatever  you  plaze. 

LADY  EMILY, 
Well  then  ;  say  a  red  corsage,  laced  with  green. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Leaced  with  green,  Leedy  Emily  ?  You  ameeze  me, 
Leedy  Emily. 

LADY  EMILY. 

Or  any  colour  you  please,  Mr.  Galbraith.  I  know  there 
are  prejudices  here  about  colours.  Mr.  Sackville  told  me  all 
about  it ;  orange  or  blue,  or  something — orange,  I  believe, 
is  not  reckoned  loyal. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Q.uite  the  contra^^ry,  my  leedy  :  it's  the  green  that's  the 
rebelly  colour.  I  suppose  your  leedyship  is  politiciaxi  enough 
to  know 

LADY  EMILY,  (interrupting  him.) 

No,  no  !  I  am  not  a  politician.  Mr.  Sackville  and  I  are 
come  over  to   do   as  much  good  as  possible,  but  no  politics. 

Oh  !  but  Mr.  Gil Mr.  Galbraith,  who  were  those  wretched 

paupers,  that  came  out  of  those  miserable  hovels  on  the  road- 
side, as  w^e  drove  along  yesterday,  half  naked,  and  looking 
so  pale  and  haggard?  I  never  was  so  shocked:  and  we 
went  on  so  rapidly,  that  I  could  not  give  them  any  thing. 
It  was  in  that  desolate  village 

MR.     GALBRAITH. 
Oh  !  I  see,  my  leedy.     I  believe  your  leedyship's  tow^n  of 


38  MANOR  SACKVILLE. 

New  Town  Sackville,  [fixiiig  his  eyes  keenly  upon  her.'] 
Well,  then,  my  leedy,  them  half-naked  starving,  murthering- 
looking  craturs,  is  the  finest  pisantry  in  the  world,  that  one 
hears  so  much  of  in  the  peepers,  and  from  the  agitaytors, 
Lady  Emily. 

LADY  EMILY. 

Gracious,  you  don't  say  so  !  Are  those  really  the  Irish 
peasantry  that  make  one  laugh  so  in  the  novels,  and  on  the 
stage  1 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Indeed,  and  troth,  I  do,  my  leedy ;  only  they  sometimes 
make  us  laugh,  here,  on  the  wrong  side  of  our  mouths. 

LADY  EMILY,  (seriously.) 

But  they  don't  belong  to  us,  Mr.  Galbraith  ?  they  are  not 
our  tenants  ?  not  Mr.  Sackville's  people,  who  pay  us  our 
ten  thousand  a  year  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

They  are  your  leedyship's  tinants,  and  your  tinants'  tin- 
ants,  and  your  cottiers,  and  your  spalpeens.  They  all  go 
thereby,  to'^make  up  your  leedyship's  Irish  rints  in  gineral, 
and  another  rint  in  particular  into  the  bargain  ;  and  there  is 
not  a  man  among  them,  nor  woman  either,  for  all  their 
palaver  and  blarney,  but  would  think  no  more  of  teeking 
the  life  of  a  Christhian,  nor  shooting  me  from  behind  an 
hedge,  as  often  they  did,  (the  Lord  be  praised  for  his  protec- 
tion,) than  your  leedyship's  beautiful  little  Frinch  poodle 
there  would  think  of  killing  the  rot  he's  watching  in  that 
hole. 

LADY  EMILY,  (frightened,  and  starting  up.) 

Oh !  Mr.  Galbraith  !  you  don't  say  there  are  rats  in  this 
room  1  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  am  so  much  afraid 
of  as  rats  ;  they  are  my  favourite  aversion. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (cautiously,  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  box.) 

Don't  be  afraid,  my  leedy  ;  sorrow  much  they  show  them- 
selves in  the  day,  though  the  place  is  ate  up  alive  with  them 
from  garret  to  scullery.     What  do  you  think  of  them  impu- 


iVIANOR    SACKVILLE.  39 

dent  thieves  drawing  the  bed  from  under  Mistress  Quigley, 
the  other  night,  though  she  keeps  that  big  black  cat  of  hers 
always  near  her,  like  a  watch-dog.  [Lady  Emily  moves 
timidly  towards  the  door.]  Stay  now,  my  lady  ;  don't  stir, 
if  you  plaze  ;  stay  where  you  are — keep  near  to  the  table, 
madam. 

[He  rises  with  caution,  and  appears  to  watch  something  in  movement. 
Lady  Emily  springs  up  on  the  table.  Galbraith  throws  his  hat  at 
the  box,  which  upsets,  and  an  enormous  rat  bounces  out.  Lady 
Emily  screams  violently.  Galbraith  shouts,  and  claps  his  hand  ; 
and  Bijou,  barking  loudly,  gives  chace.  The  rat  shows  great  sport. 
Lady  Emily  becomes  almost  hysterical.  Galbraith  gets  frightened. 
Bijou  is  outrageous.  The  rat  escapes  through  a  hole  in  the  wain- 
scot. Bijou  stands  at  fault.  Lady  Emily  now  laughs  violently.  Gal- 
braith leans  against  the  book-case,  wiping  his  face,  and  unconscious 
that  his  coiffure  an  naturel  has  escaped  from  its  moorings,  in  the  course 
of  the  chase.  Bijou,  with  a  mischievous  look  in  his  bright  little  eyes, 
has  carried  the  wig  under  the  table,  where  he  is  busy  dressing  it, 
after  his  most  approved  fashion.  At  this  point,  the  door  opens.  A 
group,  alarmed  by  the  previous  noise,  rush  in  ; — Lady  Julia,  in  the 
full  dress  of  Lady  Isabella  Sackville,  Lord  Fitzroy,  and  Clarence 
_  Herbert,  in  the  cut  velvet  suits,  bag- wigs,  and  swords  of  Mr.  Fitz- 
'gerald  Sackville,  and  Justine  following  with  an  antique  dress  on 
her  arm  for  Lady  Emily.  A  general  burst  of  loud,  vociferous,  and 
continued  laughter  ;  Galbraith  alone  preserving  his  gravity,  as  he 
fans  himself  with  his  hat.] 

LADY  EMILY,  (still  on  the  table,  holding  her  sides,  and  quite  ex- 
haustedly  laughing.) 

Oh !  I  shall  die  of  it !  I  shall  indeed.  Look  at  Lord 
Fitzroy's  face — ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Do,  somebody,  help  me  to 
get  down. 

LORD  FITZROY,  (assisting  her  to  descend,  addresses  her  in  a  theatri- 
cal and  formal  manner.) 

Oh  !  my  Harriot  Byron,  have  I  indeed  been  so  fortunate 
as  to  arrive  in  time  to  rescue  you  ?  Speak,  loveliest  of  your 
sex  ! 

LADIES  EiMILY  AND  JULIA. 

Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

LORD  FITZROY,   (turning  upon  Mr.  Galbraith,  and  placing  his  hand 
on  his  sword.) 

Sir  Hargrave  Pollexfen  !  you  are  engaged,  I  doubt,  in  a 
very  bad  manner.* 

(Shakes  his  wig  till  the  powder  falls  out.] 

*  See  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  p.  209,  vol.  i. 
5 


40  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (staring.) 
Och  !  is  it  me,  sir  1 — 

LORD  FITZROY. 

Yes,  you,  sir. 

CLARENCE  HERBERT,  (taking  snuff  affectedly.) 

May  I  perish,  if  I  understand  this  adventure. 

[Galbraith,  confounded,  not  knowing  whetlier  this  is  jest  or  earnest, 
but  inclined  to  take  it  tout  de  travers.] 

LORD  FITZROY,.  (addressing  Galbraith.) 
Perhaps  Sir  Har grave  will  explain. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

I  beg  your  lordship's  pardon !  You  mistake  entirely,  my 
lord — I  meant  no  offence — I  am  not  Sir  Hargrave,  my  lord, 
as  you  seem  to  suppose  ;  if  it  isn't  joking  you  are  ;  but  Mr. 
Jeremiah  Galbraith,  egint  to  Mr.  Lumley  Sackville,  attorney 
of  Maryville,  Sally  Noggin  !  [Much  laughter.']  And  ye 
see,  my  lord,  whin  a  big  villain  of  a  rot  [a  shout  of  inextin- 
guishable laughter]  came  running  about  the  room,  like  mad, 
and  frightened  tbe  life  out  of  my  leedy 


CLARENCE  HERBERT,  (interrupting  him  with  an  affectation  of  much 
indignation.) 

But  your  wig,  sir,  your  wig  !  did  the  rat  frighten  your  wig 
from  its  propriety  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (in  consternation,  and  putting  his  hand  to  his 

head.) 

My  wig,  sir — och  murther  !     What's  gone  with  my  new 
wig  ?     [A  general  laugh.] 


LADY  EMILY,  (who  had  thrown  herself  into  a  chair.) 

Oh  !  Mr.  Galbraith,  don't  mind  these  young  men.     It's  all 
fun — ha!  ha!  ha!     It's  all  those  comical  old  dresses,  and 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  41 

acting  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  you  know — and  then  your 
new  wig  !  and  Bijou  ! — ha  !  ha!  ha! 

[Renewed  and  general  shouts  of  laughter.  Galbraith  perceives  Bijou's 
abduction  of  his  wig,  and  flies  to  the  rescue.] 


MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Oh !  you  little  rogue,  you — quit  now,  quit. 
[Recovers  and  resumes  his  wig,  with  an  air  of  great  mortification.] 

LADY  JULIA,  (throwing  herself  on  another  chair.) 

Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  O  my  !  I  am  50  tired  !  I  have  laughed 
more  in  one  morning,  in  miserable  old  Ireland,  than  .... 

LORD  FITZROY. 

Than  in  merry  old  England,  all  your  life.  Well,  and  so 
have  I.  [Wipes  his  ei/es.]  If  ever  any  body  died  of  laughter, 
I  shall  be  buried  in  Moge-row  churchj-ard,  before  the  year  is 
out.  But,  Lady  Emily,  how  do  you  like  our  dresses  ?  I  am 
Sir  Charles ,  and  Herbert  is  "  Cousin  Reeves." 

LADY  EMILY. 
They  are  enchanting,  and  really  so  becoming  ! 

CLARENCE  HERBERT,  (looking  at  Lady  Julia.) 

Yes  ;  I  think  I  never  saw  Lady  Julia  look  so  well ;  not 
even  at  her  great  epoch,  the  queen's  first  drawing-room  !  I 
do  think  the  hair,  drawn  up  over  that  roll, — the  system,  as 
dear  old  Mother  Q,uigley  calls  it, — is  most  becoming.  It  de- 
fines a  beautiful  forehead  so.  And  allow  me,  Lady  Julia,  to 
say,  vous  briilez  par  Id. 

LADY  JULIA,  (pleased.) 

Dear  !  only  see  how  gallant  Clarence  Herbert  has  become, 
since  he  has  breathed  Irish  air  ! 

LORD  FITZROY,  (with  an  assumed  brogue.) 
Och  !  it's  the  praties  that  does  it,  my  lady. 


43  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

OMNES. 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

LADY  JULIA. 

But,  I  say ;  we  are  all  ready  dressed,  for  the  rehearsal  of 
our  proverb. 


LADY  EMILY,  (still  staring  and  laughing  at  the  masqueraders ;  while 
Galbraith  is  evidently  meditating  an  escape,  in  which  he  is  impeded 
by  Lord  Fitzroy,  who  has  not  done  with  him.) 

Exactly.  After  luncheon  we  will  have  a  grand  rehearsal. 
Well,  I  do  think  that  old  style  of  coiffure  is  preferable  to  the 
modern  coiffure  a  la  Chinoise.  Justine,  do  try  and  do  up  my 
hair  that  way — only  to  see  how  it  will  become  me. 

JUSTINE,  (laying  down  her  parcel.) 

Mais  voila  une  toilette  complette,  miladi,  robe, — pompon 
h.  grands  faiballas,  cornette  et  chevelure  relevee. 

[Lady  Emily  throws  off  her  cap.  Her  beautiful  hair,  which  falls  in 
profusion,  is  gathered  by  Justine  over  a  black  silk  roll,  formerly 
known  by  the  name  of  a  tete.  They  all  gather  round  this  sum- 
mary toilette.  At  this  moment,  a  train  of  carriages  appears  des- 
cending from  an  eminence  at  the  left  of  the  mansion,  and  sweeping 
past  the  library  window,  towards  the  front  of  the  house.  The  party 
all  rush  to  the  windows,  in  eager  curiosity.  The  carriages  are 
divided  into  two  platoons.  Mr.  Galbraith  is  called  to  name  the 
parties  as  they  pass.  The  first  carriage  is  a  handsome  open  ba- 
rouche, with  coronets  and  supporters.  In  the  seat  of  honour  is  Lady 
Rosstrevor,  with  Mr.  Grimshavv  at  her  left,  and  Miss  Grimshaw 
and  Miss  Mullens  opposite.  In  a  gig  follow  close  Mr.  Binns  and 
Mrs.  Grafton,  both  of  the  congregation  of  Lady  Rosstrevor.  All 
the  parties  are  in  earnest  and  zealous  conversation,  heads  bobbing, 
and  tongues  wagging.  At  a  little  distance,  a  handsome  dark  cha- 
riot, well  and  knowingly  appointed  with  postillion  in  purple  and 
gold,  and  coachmen  riding  before,  contains  the  Honourable  and 
Reverend  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Polypus  inside,  and  on  the  rumble.  Miss 
Polypus  and  Captain  Blackacre.  In  a  one-horse  phaeton,  are  the 
Archdeacon  and  Mrs.  Grindall. 


LORD  FITZROY. 

Here's  an  incursion  !  The  natives  risen  en  masse  !  Good 
turn-out  though,  by  Jove  !  Lady  Rosstrevor  is  a  monstrous 
pretty  woman  ;  and  the  moral  agent,  celd  passe  outre  ! 


MANOR  SACKVILLE.  43 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (running  to  the  door.) 

I'll  just  run,  my  lady,  and  tell  th'  Honourable  and  Rever- 
end that  you  will  have  the  pleasure  of  receiving  them  in  a 
jiffy,  which  will  give  you  all  time  to  take  off  them  comical 
ould  dresses  ;  and  I'll  entertain  tnem  the  while. 

LORD  FITZROY,  (seizing  his  arm.) 

Not  so  fast,  my  excellent  Mr.  Galbraith  !  [  Turns  to  the 
ladies.~\  Let  us  turn  out  just  as  we  are.  It  will  give  them 
a  sensation  for  the  present,  and  de  quoi  penser,  for  the  rest  of 
their  lives. 

LADY  EMILY. 

Oh,  delightful! — charming!  To  be  sure.  It  will  be  the 
greatest  fun.  Now,  let  nobody  laugh.  Here,  Justine,  put 
on  this  old  dress  over  all.  Never  mind  ;  the  more  boufonne 
the  better.     Can't  look  too  bungy,  you  know. 

[They  all  assist— Galbraith  tries  to  steal  off  again.] 

LORD  FITZROY. 

No,  no,  Mr.  Galbraith  ;  we  can't  do  without  you,  can  we 
Lady  Emily  ?     [  Whispers.']     He'll  blab  if  we  let  him  off. 

LADY  EMILY,  (with  imperiousness.) 

Certainly  not.  You  must  dress  too,  Mr.  Galbraith  ;  that 
will  complete  the  group.  You  shall  be  the  pendant  to  Jus- 
tine. Every  one,  you  know,  must  have  a  cavalier,  to  hand 
her  in,  in  the  old  style. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (in  trepidation.) 

Och,  my  lady  !  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  but  it  would  not  do 
in  this  country  ;  they're  all  mighty  sairious  here,  and 

LADY  EMILY. 

Well,  then,  we'll  cheer  them  up  a  little,  and  show  them 
what  it  is  to  be  gay.  Mr.  Sackville  and  I  have  it  at  heart  to 
amuse  them.  It  is  among  our  first  intentions  for  their  good 
and  improvement.     Here,  do  look  among  those  Italian  cos- 

5* 


44 


MANOR    SACKTILLE. 


tumes  for  something  that  will  suit  Mr.  Galbraith.     We  must 
have  you,  Mr.  Galbraith. 

JUSTINE,  (throwing  every  thing  about.) 

Ah  ! — mon  Dieu  ! — Tnoi^  Dieu  !  C'est  tout  costume  de 
femme.  Cependant,  en  voila  une  qui  ira  bien.  C'est  fait 
expres  pour  Monsieur. 

(Holds  up  the  dress  of  a  Roman  Pifferaro.] 

OMNES. 
Hal  ha!  ha! 

LADY  EMILY. 

That  will  do,  that  will  do.  There,  just  throw  it  over  his 
coat ;  make  haste  ! 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (struggling  between  Lord  Fitzroy  and  Justine, 
who  gradually  force  on  the  dress.) 

My  leedy  !  I  beg  your  leedyship's  pardon,  but  raally  I 
never  need  show  my  face  agen  on  the  bench,  as  a  magistrate, 
if  I  make  a  Judy  Mulfluggins  of  myself  in  this  way  ! 

LADY  EMILY,  (haughtily,  and  drawing  up.) 

Mr.  Galbraith,  your  principal,  Captain  Williams,  a  man 
of  fashion,  and  Mr.  Sackville's  particular  friend,  (though  he 
has  done  us  the  honour  of  acting  as  our  agent  for  this  bar- 
barous estate,)  never  refuses  to  enter  into  our  frolics.  He 
acted  in  my  proverbs  at  Florence,  all  last  winter.  I  cannot, 
therefore,  understand,  in  a  person  desirous  to  stay  in  our 
service — [checks  herself,]  I  mean,  Avho  belongs  to  our  estab- 
lishment, that  he  should  be  too  prbud,  and  in  such  extremely 
bad  taste,  as  to  decline  joining  in  any  thing  in  which  my 
sister  and  myself  are  leaders,  and  which  Mr.  Sackville  will 
be  delighted  to  witness,  when  he  returns  from  his  ride. 

[Galbraith,  frightened  and  subdued,  permits  Justine  to  finish  his 
toilette.] 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 
Surely,  madam ;  whatever  your  leedyship  plases.     Only 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.     '  45 

I  hope,  Lady  Emily,  you  will  have  the  very  great  kindness 
just  to  explain  to  the  Honourable  and  Reverend,  and  Lady 
Rosstrevor,  how  English  agents  disguise  themselves,  and 
make  Judies — that  is — for  it's  by  no  manes  the  weys  of  the 
pleece  to  do  the  loikes  here. 

[Enters  the  Groom  of  the  Chambers,  who  observes  the  transforma- 
tion of  the  company  with  coldness  and  tranquillity,  as  a  thing  of 
frequent  occurrence.] 

GROOM. 

Lady  Rosstrevor,  my  lady,  and  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Polypot, 
and  several  other  persons  (of  the  neighbourhood,  I  believe,) 
are  in  the  drawing-room. 

LADY  EMILY. 

Oh  !  very  well,  Harrison.  I'll  wait  on  them  immediately. 
Stay,  you  must  announce  us,  or  the  poor  people  won't  know 
which  is  which.  And,  Harrison,  tell  Marchand  to  send  up 
soups  with  the  luncheon,  and  all  sorts  of  things.  There  is 
a  long  party,  you  know.  [Harrison  bows  in  solemn  silence.'] 
Well,  now,  is  every  body  ready  ?  Oh,  bravo  !  Mr.  Gal- 
braith  !  charming  ! — Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! — Now  you  know  what 
you  are  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (sighing.) 
Why,  thin,  I  declare  to  the  Lord,  madam,  I  do  not. 

LADY  EMILY. 
You  are  a  jpifferaro — a  Roman  Pifferaro ! 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

A  Roman  pufferary  !  see  there  now  !  If  it's  the  same 
thing  to  your  ladyship,  I'd  rather  be  a  protestant  pufferary. 

LADY  EMILY,  (staring.) 

Why,  Mr.  Galbraith,  the  Romans  you  know  are  all 
Catholics,  and  subjects  of  the  Pope  ;  and  you  are  a  sort  of 
minstrel  or  piper  to  play  before  the  Virgin,  and  of  course 
not  a  Protestant. 


46  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (much  bewildered.) 
Before  the  Virgin,  my  lady  ! 

LADY  EMILY. 

Yes,  you  know,  before  the  Virgin  in  her  niches.  I  am 
supposed  to  have  brought  you  over  to  teach  the  Irish  to 
play  the  Roman  pipes. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 
To  play  the  pipes  ! 

LADY  EMILY. 

Now,  Lord  Fitzroy,  you  and  I  take  the  lead.  Then  iTulia 
and  Clarence ;  and  you,  Mr.  Galbraith, — vous  menez 
Mam'selle  Justine  !  Voila, — c'est  bien  !     Marchons  ! 

CLARENCE  HERBERT. 

Stay,  let  me  parade  you  all.  Fitzroy,  you  are  to  salute 
the  company  "  in  a  genteel  and  gallant  manner."  Julia, 
you  are  to  bridle,  and  play  with  your  fan,  and  I,  like  Sir 
Hargrave,  am  to  "  give  myself  airs  with  my  eyes,  to  have 
them  look  rakish."     Justine,  agacez  monsieur  ! 

[Justine  makes  eyes  at  Galbraith.J 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (muttering.) 
The  divil  a  bit,  but  they're  all  as  mad  as  hatters  I 

CLARENCE  HERBERT. 
Now  then — marchons  ! 

[Exeunt  Omnes. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  47 


SCENE  III. 


[The  drawing-room,  a  spacious,  modernized  apartment,  scantily 
supplied  with  the  lumber  furniture  of  the  worst  asra  of  British  taste, 
(the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century,)  cumbrous  calico-covered 
chairs,  and  shapeless  sofas,  frightful  pier-tables,  laden  with  ugly- 
glass  chandeliers,  before  ill-fraraed  siiallow  pier-glasses.  The 
walls  sprawled  over  with  a  dingy-figured  paper,  bounded  at  top 
and  bottom  with  a  tawdry  border  of  blue  roses  and  pink  leaves, 
mingled  with  orange  lilies  and  festooned  nonentities.  A  large 
Northumberland  table  is  covered  with  the  portable  elegancies  of 
modern  refinement.  Several  splendid  volumes  in  morocco  and 
gilding.  {The  Italian  gallery ,)  albums,  annuals,  illustrations, 
&c.  &.C. 

In  a  deep  window  recess,  closely  grouped,  stand  the  high  church 
party  of  Mogherow,  the  Honourable  and  Rev.  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
PoLTPus,  the  Archdeacon  and  Mrs.  Grindall,  Miss  Polypus, 
and  Captain  Blackacre,  all  apparently  occupied  with  a  volume 
of  Pinelli,  v/hich  they  hold  among  them,  with  the  sober  gravity 
with  which  they  would  read  the  morning's  lesson  from  the  same 
Bible.  Their  eyes,  however,  are  furtively  watching  the  congrega- 
tion of  saints  enumerated  in  the  preceding  scene,  who  are  gathered 
round  the  table  and  are  evidently  engaged  in  some  sly  manoeuvre 
of  pious  fraud.  Each  saintly  lady  has  a  capacious  reticule,  laden 
with  tracts. 


MRS.  GRINDALL,  (muttering  to  Mrs.  Polypus.) 

Look,  ma'am,  look  ! — look,  I  beseech  you !  they  are  in- 
sinuating their  new  light  trash  among  the  books  on  the  table. 
[Aloud.']  Very  pretty  indeed  !  a  charming  print  !  Prints 
are  very  amusing  things.     Don't  you  think  so  doctor  ? 

DR.  POLYPUS,  (looking  covertly  at  the  adverse  party,  but  with  sen- 
tentious pomposity,  addressing  his  reply  to  the  fair  interrogator.) 

Very  amusing,  my  dear,  in  their  way  ;  but  they  are  infe- 
rior, in  my  mind,  to  fine  pictures. 

MRS.  POLYPUS,  (emphatically.) 

He  is  right  ! — the  doctor  is  right,  quite  right.  A  fine 
painting  is  a  fine  thing  ! 


48  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

ARCHDEACON  GRINDALL. 

The  doctor  is  always  right. 

DR.  POLYPUS. 

But  I  like  a  print-book  too.  I  like  whatever  gives  inno- 
cent amusement,  (that  is,  in  proper  season,)  in  spite  of  cant, 
and  hypocrisy.  The  church  is  no  enemy  to  innocent  amuse- 
ment. Prints,  ma'am,  if  they  do  no  good,  do  no  harm ;  and 
that,  let  me  tell  you,  is  a  great  merit  in  these  perilous  days, 
— [looks  at  the  saints] — an  eulogium  which  cannot  be  be- 
stowed on  the  idle  books  artfully  thrust  in  the  way  of  the 
ignorant  and  unsuspecting. 

MRS.  POLYPUS. 
Good,  good  ! — very  good  ! 

ARCHDEACON  AND  MRS.  GRINDALL. 

Very  good,  indeed  ! 

[The  saintly  party  having  deposited  a  few  tracts  among  the  pomps 
and  vanities  which  encumber  the  table,  direct  their  attention  to  the 
bound  volumes  of  the  Florence  galle^'.  Lady  Rosstrevor,  who 
has  opened  one  of  them,  and  mistakes  them  for  scriptural  illustra- 
tions, pauses  over  the  fine  print  from  AUori,  of  Adam  and  Eve 
under  the  tree  of  knowledge,  with  the  serpent  above  in  its  branches, 
fixing  his  bright  eyes  on  Eve.] 

MR.  GRIMSHAW,  (aloud  to  his  own  friends.) 

Oh,  my  friends  !  there  is  a  text  to  enlighten  the  darkest ! 
— to  inspire  the  dullest  !  Behold  the  beauty  of  those  sinless 
countenances  !  Behold  the  first  man,  before  sin  had  im- 
pressed its  furrows  on  his  brow  !  Behold  the  first  woman, 
ere  shame  had  crimsoned  her  pure  cheek  ! 

MR.  BINNS,  (with  vacant  simphcity.) 

They  are  a  beautiful  pair.  Give  you  my  honour,  I  think 
Adam  has  a  great  look  of  you,  Mr.  Grimshaw,  if  I  might 
presume  to  say  so. 

LADY  ROSSTREVOR,  Praising  her  fine  eyes  from  the  figure  of 
Adam,  to  the  not  ignoble  countenance  of  her  moral  agent,  whose 
long,  black,  and  wavy  hair,  divided  on  his  high  forehead,  gives 
Bome  colour  to  the  resemblance.) 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  49 

Why,  yes  ;  there  is  a  likeness.  If  Mr.  Grimshaw  is  not, 
as  our  first  parent  then  was,  without  sin,  the  assurance  of 
salvation,  the  consciousness  of  a  perfect  grace,  may  give  a 
kindred  expression  to  the  countenance. 

MR.  GRIMSHAW. 

Alas  !  my  friend,  the  likeness  is  not  merely  that  of  the 
outward  man.  Adam  was  the  weaker  vessel  of  the  two ; 
and  sin  was  already  casting  its  shadow  forwards  on  his  brow. 
Eve  was  the  well-chosen  instrument  of  Satan's  temptations  ; 
and  in  selecting  her  for  the  medium  of  man's  fall,  the  wily 
seroent  showed  himself,  indeed,  the  suhtilest  beast  of  the 
field. 

[Lady  Rosstrevor  sighs,  and  turning  over  the  leaves,  comes  to  the 
Magdalen  of  the  same  artist.  The  Magdalen  is  seated  in  deep 
shadow  on  a  rock ;  her  face  and  figure  veiled  only  by  her  long 
luxuriant  hair.] 

MR.  GRIMSHAW,  (contemplates  the  picture  with  enthusiasm.) 

What  penitence  in  those  heavenly  eyes  !  Every  tear 
seems  laden  with  contrition.  What  compunction  on  those 
beautiful  lips  !  She  had  erred  much  ;  that  fair,  frail  creature. 
Her  fall  was  terrible ;  but  she  redeemed  it.  Her  sins  were 
forgiven  her  ;  for  she  loved  much.  It  is  by  faith  alone,  my 
children,  we  can  hope  for  salvation.  [With  a  deep  and 
affecting  intonation.]     O  !  my  daughter  what  consolation  ! 

[Lady  Rosstrevor's  lips  move  in  mental  prayer  and  emotion. 
Mrs.  Grafton  turns  over  to  a  magnificent  work  by  Titian.  Thi.s 
picture  represents  two  subjects  ;  the  one,  the  visit  to  the  house  of 
the  pharisee;  the  other,  a  virgin  and  child,  surrounded  by  saints 
and  angels.] 

MR.  GRIMSHAW. 

True  zeal  spares  not  itself;  it  shuts  not  itself  up  in  the 
cell  of  its  humble  meditation  ;  but  comes  forth  to  seek  its 
converts  in  the  gorgeous  dwellings  of  pharisaical  pride. 

MISS  GRIMSHAW,  (addresses  her  brother  with  deference.) 

Sir  it  is  pleasing  to  observe,  even  here,  in  the  house  of  the 
pharisee,  a  work  so  edifying.  The  seed  may  be  sown,  the 
calling  may  have  been  heard.  O  my  brother  !  you  may 
have  been  directed  hither,  at  this  propitious  moment,  by  the 
unknown  hand 


50  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

MISS  MULLINS,  (stupidly.) 
Amen ! 

DR.  POLYPUS,  (apart  to  his  own  group.) 

Did  you  ever  hear  such  impudent  presumption  ? 

[The  door  opens  ;  the  masquerading  parly  enter,  in  the  order  in  which 
they  left  the  library.  The  groom  of  the  chambers  announces 
"  Lady  Emily  Sackville.^^  Lady  Emily  swims  in,  with  an  irrepres- 
sible air  of  fun,  which  is  strongly  contrasted  by  Ihe  grotesque 
gravity  of  her  two  young  cavaliers.  Justine,  led  by  Mr.  Galbraith, 
or  rather  forcing  him  on,  immediately  withdraws,  along  with  the 
groom  of  the  chambers,  who  shuts  the  door.  The  Pifferaro  is  left 
"alone  in  his  glory,"  to  stand  the  brunt  of  his  ludicrous  and  painful 
position.  Pinelli  drops  from  the  hands  of  the  church  as  by  law  estab- 
lished. The  saints  stand  aghast.  Lady  Emily,  with  graceful  ease, 
approaches  each  party  alternately,  points  to  chairs,  and  throws  her- 
self into  a  fauteuil.  She  apologizes  for  the  delay  in  her  appear- 
ance, without  accounting  for  it ;  and  suddenly  recollecting  herself, 
introduces  Lady  Julia,  Lord  Fitzroy  Montague,  Clarence  Herbert, 
and  finally  Mr.  Galbraith,  who  has  taken  shelter  on  a  low  stool, 
behind  a  high-backed  sofa.  His  head  only  is  visible,  dressed  in  a 
red  net,  and  the  high-crowned  hat  with  flowers,  of  the  Roman 
Pifferaro.  The  astonishment  of  the  formal  guests  increases,  not 
unmingled  with  feelings  of  resentment.  They  suspect  a  mystifica- 
tion, but  fear  to  risk  an  expression,  which  may  betray  an  ignorance 
of  some  newly  revived  old  fashion — having  before  their  eyes  the 
threat  of  hoops,  and  powdered  toupies,  recently  announced  in  the 
London  papers  as  re-appearing  in  the  circles  of  Paris.  The  guests 
return  the  "genteel  and  gallant"  salutes  of  the  Grandison  party 
with  cold  and  suspicious  formality.  At  the  announcement  of 
Mr.  Galbraith's  name,  the  church  party  burst  out  into  an  involun- 
tary laugh.  The  brows  of  the  saints  knit  and  darken.  Mr.  Binns 
and  Miss  Mullins  bite  their  lips  and  try  to  look  miserable.] 

DR.  POLYPUS. 

I  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon — ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  the  mas- 
querading of  my  oH  friend,  Jerry  Galbraith,  I  confess,  a 
little  upsets  me.  I  should  never  have  recognized  him  under 
that  disguise,  which  gives  him  the  look  of  our  Christmas 
mummers. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (with  an  imploring  look  to  Lady  Emily.) 

Her  leedyship  will  explain,  Dr.  Polypus,  the  meaning  of 
this  dress,  which  I  have  put  on,  just  to  try  how  it  will  shoot 
the  lower  orders,  in  respect  of  her  leedyship's  new  dressing 
the  poor  of  the  pleece  in  Irish  manufacture. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  51 

LADY  EMILY,  (good-naturedly  coming  lo  his  relief,  and  with  great 
earnestness  in  her  own  plans.) 

O  certainly,  Mr.  Galbraith  :  Dr.  Polypus,  you  are  aware 
that  Mr.  Galbraith  is  sub-agent  to  our  Irish  estates.  We 
really  have  a  great  confidence  in  Mr.  Galbraith.  He  is  so 
very  good-humoured.  He  has  been  good  enough  to  try  on 
our  model  dresses,  which  we  have  brought  for  the  poor  Irish 
from  Italy;  for  I  assure  you  all,  [looking  graciously  round,'] 
that  we  have  come  to  this  wretched  country  with  the  best  in- 
tentions for  ameliorating  the  condition  of  the  lower  classes, 
as  Mr  Sackville  says.  Now  this  dress — pray  stand  up,  Mr. 
Galbraith. 

THE  CHURCH  PARTY. 

Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

[The  saints  grow  grave,  (as  the  esfablisment  becomes  gay,)  and  are 
takmg  in  gas  for  a  future  explosion.  Lady  Emily  draws  up,  and 
fixes  the  Grindalls,  Miss  Polypus,  and  her  beau,  with  a  look  of 
intense  haughtiness.  Dr.  Polypus  direct?  '^  xm  regard  foiidroyanV^ 
at  his  family,  who  suddenly  look  grave,  and  become  silent  as  mutes. 
The  Grandison  party  flutter  and  bridle,  and  shake  their  bag  wigs, 
and  flirt  their  fans,  and  "  give  themselves  airs  with  their  eyes."] 

LADY  EMILY,   (continues  with  increasing  errphasis.) 

It  does  not  appear  to  me  that  there  is  anything  laughable 
in  the  costume  which  good  Mr.  Galbraith  has  put  on  to 
please  me.  You  will  find  it  in  that  volume  of  Pinelli,  Mrs. 
Polypus.  It  is  light,  v\-arm,  and  picturesque.  Compare  it 
with  the  filthy  rags  of  the  wretches  I  saw  yesterday  swarm- 
ing about  this  place, — (in  the  last  twenty  miles  I  counted 
three  churches,  and  not  one  well-dressed  peasant,) — and  if 
you  laugh  at  this,  turn  and  weep  at  the  misery  which  sur- 
rounds you. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (to  himself) 

Divil  a  bit,  but  they're  getting  it  now. 

[Lord  Filzroy,  unseen,  pats  Lady  Emily  on  the  shoulder,  and  in  a  low 
voice  says,  "  Bravo,  padrona  ! — "  hravo,  ancora  .'" 

LADY  ROSSTREVOR,  (in  a  rhapsodical  manner.) 

O  Lady  Emily  !  if  you  form  an  opinion  of  all  the  poorer 

6 


5S  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

classes  of  this  country,  from  Avhat  you  have  seen  in  the  be- 
nighted villages  of  Manor  Sackville  and  Mogherow,  you 
will  greatly  deceive  yourself.  You  speak  of  their  outward 
wretchedness  ;  but  what  is  it  to  their  inward  darkness  !  what 
is  the  body  which  perisheth,  to  the  soul  that  lives  for  ever  ? 

THE  SAINTS,  (in  a  low,  deep,  choral  intonation.) 
What !  what  ! 

[Mr.  Grimshaw  seems  buried  in  silent  meditation.] 

LADY  EMILY. 

I  do  not  see  why  the  body  is  to  be  abandoned  to  filth  and 
misery,  because  the  soul  is  to  be  saved.  Besides,  as  Mr. 
Sackville  says,  how^  can  one  shut  oneself  up,  in  measureless 
content,  within  one's  gates,  when  all  without  is  wretchedness 
and  privation  ? 

THE  GRANDISON  PARTY,  (flirting  and  bridling  in  chorus.) 
How  !  how  ! 

MISS  GRIMSHAW,  (pertly,  and  getting  the  start  of  Dr.  Polypus  and 

Grindall,  who  each  strives  to  gain  ^^  la  parole.") 

That  is  rather,  I  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon,  a  selfish  con- 
sideration. Turning  charity  into  a  luxury,  is  making  it  a 
purely  human  enjoyment. 

MR.  BINNS. 
Purely  human  ! 

LADY  EMILY. 

Is  it  not  humane,  is  it  not  a  luxury,  to  substitute  plea- 
sure for  pain,  health  for  disease,  comfort  and  contentment  for 
poverty  and  despair  ? 

[A  struggle  for  "  la  tribune"  between  the  Church  and  Congregation.] 

LADY  ROSSTREVOR. 
It  may  be  a  luxury,  madam,  but  it  is  not  religion — for 


MANOR  SACKVILLE.  53 

among-  the  children  of  light  and  grace,  the  hunrmn  feeling  is 
but  the  canker  in  the  rose  ;  it  is  the  sounding  brass,  and 
tinkling  cymbal.     Man  is  saved  by  faith  alone  ! 

THE  SAINTS. 

By  faith  alone  ! 

[Dr.  Polypus  rises  with  a  look  and  manner  that  indicate  "  the  chureh 
is  in  danger.'"     But  Lady  Emily  interrupts  him  petulently.] 

LADY  EMILY. 

Lady  Rosstrevor,  I  regret  that  I  cannot  agree  with  you. 
I  have  always  been  taught  that  charity  is  a  virtue  at  all 
events  ;  in  this  miserable  country,  it  is  a  duty  ;  and  it  will 
be  to  us,  as  Mr.  Sackville  says,  a  positive  enjoyment.  We 
are  therefore  resolved  to  devote  ourselves  exclusively  to  doing 
good.     All  we  want  is  to  know  how  we  shall  set  about  it. 


THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  SAINTS,  (in  antiphonizing  chorus.) 

We  shall  be  most  happy,  Lady  Emily,  to  point  out  the 
way. 

DR.  POLYPUS,  (laying  both  hands  on  the  table,  and  with  a  stentorian 
voice  and  ex-cathedra  manner.) 

Lady  Emily,  I  have  the  honour  to  be  the  rector  of  the 
parish  of  Manor  Sackville ;  and  if  public  station  gave  any 
right  to  meddle  with  private  opinion,  I  certainly  might  claim 
the  right  of  the  church  as  by  law  established,  to  direct  the 
benevolent  views  of  the  wealthiest  of  my  parishoners, 

MRS.  POLYPUS. 
He  is  right — quite  right. 

ARCHDEACON  GRINDALL. 
He  is  always  right. 

DR.*  POLYPUS. 

Lady  Emily,  I  will  yield  to  no  man  in  my  devotion  to  my 
country,  and  in  attachment  to  the  lower  orders.     I  love  the 


S4  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

poor  Irish,  madam,  first,  as  my  humble  fellow-creatures ; 
secondly,  as  the  flock  committed  to  my  care  by  Providence. 
[A  low  moan  from  the  Saints.]  Yes,  madam,  committed  to 
my  care.  I  have  not  seduced  them  by  low  and  canting  arts 
from  other  folds.  I  have  neither  led,  nor  misled  them, 
through  pathless  wilds  of  sectarian  fanaticism,  Vv'hich  sooner 
or  later,  must  end  in  atheism.  [A  louder  groan  from  the 
Saints :  the  Grandison  party  affect  to  be  much  interested  in 
the  discussion^  and  shake  the  poicdcr  about.]  I  may  one 
day,  madam,  become  an  unworthy  member  of  that  Reverend 
Bench,  to  whose  patronage  and  support,  almost  every  cha- 
ritable institution  in  this  kingdom  is  mainly  indebted,  and 
whose  revenues  go  so  largely  to  their  support.  I  am  aware 
that  the  poorer  classes  here  know  not  this  fact.  By  a  detes- 
table cant,  even  the  poor  Protestants  are  taught  that  the  epis- 
copal properties  are  an  abuse  of  religion,  and  must  be  confis- 
cated to  their  use  ;  while  the  poor  wretches  are  at  the  same 
time  unpitjangly  drained  of  their  last  shilling,  for  the  service 
of  the  ravenous  tabernacle. 


MISS  GRIMSHAW. 

Drained  for  the  tabernacle!  drained  of  their  last  shilling! 

0  Dr.  Polypus,  this  from  you  !  who  draw  your  four  thou- 
sand a-year  from  these  poor  people  ! 

DR.  POLYPUS,  (a  little  thrown  out  by  this  palpable  hit ;  but  promptly 
recovering  his  presence  of  mind.) 

Thirdly,  madam,  I  love  the  church, — -I  mean  I  love  the 
poor  people  of  the  country,  I  say,  because  they, — that  is,  the 
poor 

MISS  GRIMSHAW,   (eagerly.) 

Because  the  poor  pay  you  the  tithes,  which  go  to  make  up 
the  immense  revenues  of  your  numerous  pluralities. 

DR.  POLYPUS,  ("  patience  perforce  with  M'ilful  choler  meeting,"  in  an 
affected  tone  of  moderation  and  good  breeding.) 

Miss  Grimshaw,   I  respect  yoi^as  a  worthy  lady,  sincere, 

1  believe,  though  rather  intemperate  in  your  calling,  (for  one, 
at  least,  of  your  sober  years  ;)  [turni7ig  to  Lady  Emily  ;]  and 
thirdly,  madam 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  55 

MISS  GRIMSHAW,  (pique  au  jeu.) 

I  beg  your  pardon,  Doctor  Polypus  ;  my  years,  Dr.  Poly- 
pus, have  nothing  to  do  with  the  subject  under  discussion.  I 
do  say,  that  many  of  the  members  of  the  Church  of  England 
have  no  other  object  than  to  amass  wealth,  and  aggrandize 
their  own  families,  so  that  church  dignities  have  become  al- 
most an  inheritance  ;  and  bishops,  their  sons,  and  sons-in- 
law,  in  the  plenitude  of  their  powers,  their  indolence  and  their 
arrogance,  lose  all  recollection  of  the  apostolic  mandate  "  to 
be  blameless,  not  greedy  of  filthy  lucre,  nor  lifted  up  with 
pride,  and  self-conceit." 

[A  general  murmur  of  applause  among  the  Saints ;  of  contempt  and 
resentment  among  the  high  church,  intermingled  with  broken 
sounds  of"Zoio" — ''  vieaiV'—^Urading  saints,''  4'C.J 

LADY  EMILY,  (eagerly  and  warmly  in  controversy.) 

Well  now,  Dr.  Polypus,  go  on  :  we  sliall  be  summoned 
to  luncheon  directly. 

DR.  POLYPUS. 

Well,  Lady  Emily ;  and  thirdly, — but  I  have  to  observe, 
that  there  are,  as  your  ladyship  must  know,  accusations  which 
justly  subject  their  makers  to  a  charge  of  wilful  violation  of 
the  truth ;  and  it  is  common  in  the  low-born  and  low-condi- 
tioned, to  envy  those  with  whom  they  cannot  be  placed  in 
comparison.  Thirdly,  then,  madam,  and  lastly — but  first  I 
fling  from  me  with  indignation,  the  insinuations  of  my  very 
respectable  friend,  Miss  Grimshaw,  in  all  that  concerns  the 
payment  of  tithes  :  first,  because  the  poor  people,  w^hom  I 
love  and  pity,  do  not  pay  me  my  tithes  ;  next,  because  they 
have  not  for  two  years  paid  me  my  tithes ;  and  thirdly,  be- 
cause I  have,  this  day,  received  a  notice  from  the  Whitefeet, 
that  they  will  never  pay  me  my  tithes  any  more. 

MRS.  POLYPUS. 
He  is  right — he  is  quite  right. 

THE  SAINTS,  (incredulously.) 
Oh !  oh ! 

6* 


56  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


LORD  FITZROY,  (standing  forth  with  an  assumed  "guinde"  air;  and 
with  his  hand  to  his  sword,  in  imitation  of  Sir  Geoffrey  Sackville 
over  the  chimney-piece.) 

I  rise  to  corroborate  the  assertion  of  Dr.  Polypus.  I  am 
an  officer  of  liis  majesty's  service  ;  I  have  been  four  days 
only  in  my  quarters  at  Mogherow  ;  and  on  the  second  day 
of  my  sojourn,  I  was  put  upon  active  service,  to  surround 
and  capture  and  expose  for  sale,  Molly  Molony's  mother-pig 
and  all  her  pretty  little  ones  ;  the  said  Molly  having  refused 
ever  again  to  pay  tithe,  in  scRcula  scuculorum.  And  I  further 
declare  that  the  Niobe  of  the  sty,  with  tears  in  her  eyes  did 
complain  .... 

CLARENCE  HERBERT,  (in  mimicry  of  the  noble  debates  in  the  upper 

house.) 

I  rise  to  suggest  to  my  nubble  friend,  than  whom  there 
does  not  exist  a  tiner  or  more  gj^llant  officer,  that  his  ludship 
mistakes  the  fact,  in  as  much  as  that  it  was  not  M0II3'  Molony's 
pig,  but  Molly  herself,  who,  with  tears  in  h«r  eyes,  did  com- 
plain. 

[A  general  titter  among  the  Mondains  ] 

DR.  POLYPUS. 

I  did  not  know  your  lordship  was  the  young  officer  called 
upon  to  perform  that  disagreeable,  but  most  important  duty  ; 
nor  indeed  (having  returned  to  the  country  but  a  few  days) 
that  we  had  the  pleasure  of  having  you  quartered  in  our 
neighbourhood.  I  hope  the  Marquis  is  quite  well.  I  had 
the  honour  of 

[Enter  Harrison  from  a  newly-made  folding-door,  at  the  further  end 
of  the  room.  He  bows  low,  waving  his  napkin,  and  backs  out.  A 
sumptuous  banquet,  by  the  name  of  luncheon,  appears  laid  out  in 
the  adjoining  room,  made  "  to  engage  all  hearts,  and  charm  all 
eyes."  The  sight  and  odour  operate  as  a  "  Irhe  de  Dieu  ;"  and  the 
parly  proceed,  by  a  cointnon  impulse,  to  obey  the  law  of  that  nature 
which  levels  to  one  condition  saints  and  sinners,  the  little  and  the 
great,  in  presence  of  a  well-furnished  table.  The  luncheon  consists 
of  "  j3o/«g-es,"  '^froids  d  la  gelee  d'asfic'^  of  all  kinds,  hot  cotelettes, 
&c.,  with  the  choicest  wines,  confeclionory,  and  fruits;  and  a 
bouffet  laid  out  with  tea,  coffee,  and  liqueurs.  It  excites  unusual 
admiration,  and  a  little  surprise  in  the  visitors.  Lord  Fitzroy  lakes 
the  head  of  t.ie  table,  supported  by  Lady  Rosstrevor  on  his  right, 
(who  is  flanked  by  her  moral  agent.)  and  by  Lady  Emily  on  the 
left,  flanked  by  Dr.  Polypus.  Mr.  Galbraith,"who  has  dropped  his 
pifferaro  dress  behind  the  sofa,  entrenches  himself  behind  a  cold 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  57 

surloin  of  beef,  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  proud  of  doing  the  honours. 
The  party  are  scarcely  seated,  and  a  general  attack  began,  when 
Mr.  Sackville  enters,  accompanied  by  a  tall  and  rather  siout  young 
nian,  with  a  dress  partly  clerical  and  partly  sporting.  Mr.  Sack- 
ville  stares  at  the  appearance  of  his  own  friends.  Lady  Emily  runs 
to  him  to  appease  his  annoyance.] 

LADY  EMILY,  (aside.) 

We  were  caught,  as  you  see.      Never  mind  it ;  they  don't, 
I  assure  you — they  think  it  is  tout  de  bon. 

[Mr.  Sackville's  look  of  amazement  and  displeasure  yields  to  his 
good  breeding.  He  if?  generally  and  briefly  presented  by  Lady 
Emily  ;  and  then  leads  up  the  stranger,  whom  the  guests  recoo'nize 
with  looks  of  surprise,  contempt  and  anger.] 


MR    SACKVILLE. 

Lady  Emily,  I  must  present  the  Rev.  Mr.  O'Callaghan  to 
you.  You  have  to  thank  him  for  me,  for  he  has  just  saved 
my  limbs,  at  the  risk  at  least  of  his  own.  Now  you  need 
not  look  so  pale  ;  since  I  am  here,  and  in  a  whole  skin. 
That  vicious  colt  of  yours,  Clarence,  was  rather  too  much 
for  me. 


MR.  O'CALLAGHAN,  (with  great  ease,  and  taking  the  seat  assigned 
him  next  Mr.  Galbraith,  to  whom  he  holds  out  his  plate  for  a  slice 
of  cold  beef.) 

Not  vicious,  Mr.  Sackville,  but  spirited.  Spirit  is  often 
mistaken  for  vice,  in  man  and  baste, — in  this  country  especi- 
ally. But  I  think,  sir,  I  could  take  the  shine  out  of  that 
beautiful  high-bred  little  animal ;  for  an  animal  may  be  high 
bred  in  his  own  race — colt,  as  well  as  curragh  favourite. 

DR.  POLYPUS,  (to  Mrs.  Grindall.) 

Did  you  ever  see  such  easy  impudence  ?  They  don't 
know  who  he  is  ! 


CLARENCE  HERBERT,  (who  is  placed  on  the  other  side  of  O'Cal- 
laghan, dropping  his  affected  tone,  and  addressing  with  eager- 
ness.) 

You  are  quite  right,  sir.  But  it  is  a  doctrine  not  suffici- 
ently known.  You  may  breed  up  to  any  point.  Have  you 
read  Mr.  Karkeeth  of  Truro,  on  the  education  of  horses  ? 


S#  MANOR    SA.CKVILLE, 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN,  (without  interrupting  his  gastronomic  course.) 

*' The  Veterinarian," — I  take  it  in,  sir.  I  have  just  got 
the  last  number  from  London — a  capital  work.  The  philoso- 
phy of  the  stable  might  often  be  applied  to  the  philosophy  of 
man.     The  pleasure  of  a  glass  of  wine,  sir. 

MR.  CLARENCE  HERBERT. 
With  all  my  heart. 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN. 

He  recommends — that's  Mr.  Karkeeth — three  modes  of 
educating  the  horse — punisment,  reward,  and  emulation  ; 
but  above  all,  he  recommends  gentle  means  to  coercive. 
He'd  have  made  a  capital  legislator  for  Ireland — that's  in  th' 
ould  times — he  deprecates  a  horse  of  spirit  and  mettle  being 
deprived  of  his  food.  I'll  trouble  you  for  the  potatoes,  young 
man.  Mr.  Galbraith,  you  ought  to  tache  Mr.  Sackville's 
cook  to  dress  potatoes  ;  no  one  understands  dressing  potatoes 
but  the  lower  Irish. 

[Galbraith  and  the  Church  party  "  all  astonishment."] 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (to  himself.) 

The  divil  a  bit  of  such  aisy  impudence  ever  I  witnessed — 
Maynooth  for  iver  ! 


MR.  SACKVILLE,  (breaking  off  a  conversation  with  Lady  Ross- 
trevor,  and  walking  round  the  table,  stops  opposite  Mr.  O'Callag- 
han.) 

Perhaps  you  can  give  us  some  hints,  sir.  I  assure  you,  I 
think  such  secrets  worth  knowing.  I  have  always  thought 
that  potatoes  are  better  dressed  in  France  than  any  where.  I 
like  them  a  la  maitre  d^hoiel  amazingly. 


MR.  O'CALLAGHAN. 

Not  at  all,  sir,  begging  your  pardon.  Potatoes  should 
always  come  up  in  their  jackets.  You  must  ate  a  hot  pota- 
toe  out  of  the  pot,  in  an  Irish  cabin,  to  know  what  a  delicious 
thing  it  is.  The  craturs  won't  always  have  a  grain  of  salt 
to  give  you  with  it :  but  they'll  be  sure  to  sweeten  it  with  a 


MANOR   SACKVILLE.  59 

cead  mille  faltha;  and  I  believe,  sir,  there  is  no  better 
sauce  to  a  plain  thing,  than  the  hearty  welcome  of  a  cordial 
hospitality. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Not  to  have  salt  to  one's  porridge,  is  a  proverbial  expres- 
sion for  poverty  ;  and  literally,  not  to  have  salt  to  one's 
potatoe,  seems  even  below  the  scale  of  Irish  privation. 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN. 

Why  then,  sir,  at  this  moment,  within  gun-shot  of  this 
stupendous  and  splendid  banquet,  at  which  we  are  (thanks  to 
the  Lord)  faring  sumptuously,  and  where,  as  the  poet  says, 
"  all  is  more  than  hospitably  good,"  there  are  hundreds  of 
poor  creatures  who  would  think  themselves  vrell  off,  to  have 
plenty  of  potatoes,  without  the  salt  ;  and  who  would  con- 
sider a  scudan  rhu,  by  way  of  a  kitchen,  a  faist  for  a  king. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (much  affected.) 

Good  God  !  The  disparity  is  frightful.  But  what  is  that 
dish  you  speak  of?  Is  it  any  thing  that  I  can  supply  them 
with  ? 


MR.  O'CALLAGHAN. 

Is  it  the  scudari  rhn.,  sir?  Oh,  it's  only  a  salt  herring, 
sir,  and  a  single  one  is  often  a  great  trate  to  a  whole  family  ; 
and  it  is  shougJi'd  about  like  an  anchovy,  or  other  delicacy, 
after  a  fine  dinner  like  this. 


DR.  POLYPUS. 

After  all  that  is  said  of  the  poverty  of  the  Irish  Peasantry, 
I  most  sincerely  believe,  that  on  an  average,  they  are  better 
off,  or  at  least  as  well,  as  the  peasantry  of  the  continent.  I 
have  heard  many  enlightened  travellers  say  so. 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN. 

I  make  no  comparisons.  Dr.  Polypus,  for  I  have  not  trav- 
elled further  than  Paris  ;  y.urns  to  Mr.  SacJcviUe ;]  but 
when  it  is  remimbered,  sir,  that  the  Irish  peasant  pays  to  the 


60  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

land  shark  squireens  at  the  rate  of  six  pounds  per  acre,  or 
more,  for  his  half-acre  of  that  land,  which  these  middle  men 
get  from  you,  Mr.  Sackville,  for  thirty  shillings, — a  rent 
amounting  to  eleven-pence  out  of  every  shilling  he  earns — 
that  when  at  the  back  of  this,  he  contributes  to  keep  Doctor 
Polypus's  coach-and-four, — laving  a  pretty  profit  to  his 
proctor  besides — that  he  maintains  in  a  very  genteel  w^ay  my 
principal,  the  Rivirend  Father  Everard,  (who  will  give  you 
as  good  a  boiled  fowl,  and  a  bottle  of  port,  as  any  man  in  the 
barony,)  and  that  he  even  helps  me  to  keep  a  tight  little  hack 
to  ride  to  a  station,  or  mass-house, — you  will  aisily  concaive, 
Mr.  Sackville,  that  the  cratur  may  think  himself  well  off 
Avith  a  potatoe ; — without  the  luxury  of  the  scudan  rhu,  and 
often  without  a  drop  of  butter-milk  to  wash  it  down.  The 
pleasure  of  a  glass  of  wine  with  you,  Mr.  Galbraith.  Shall 
it  be  Burgundy,  sir  ?  I  have  it  here  beside  me.  \_Helps 
himself y  and  Mr.  Galbraith  icho  is  overwhelmed  by  his  "  aisy 
assurance."] 

LADY  EMILY,   (poking  her  head   forward,  and  listening  with  great 
earnestness.) 

What  is  his  name.  Dr.  Polypus  ?  he  is  amazingly  clever, 
and  so  amusing ! 

DR.  POLYPUS. 

Do  you  really  think  so  ?  I  never  met  him  before.  His 
vulgarity,  as  much  as  his  peculiar  position  here,  keeps  him 
out  of  good  society.  I  forget  his  name  ;  but  by  the  lower 
orders  he  is  commonly  called  Father  Phil  of  Mogherow. 

LADY  EMILY,  (graciously.) 

Father  Mog-e-row,  will  you  allow  me  to  recommend  you 
some  gelee  a  V aspic,  with  your  cold  ham.      [A  great  titter.'] 

MR.    GALBRAITH.    (to    Mr.    O'Callaghan,   who  ia   still    talking  to 
Mr.  Sackville,  with  ease  and  earnestness.) 

Father  Phil,  my  lady  is  asking  you  to  take  some  jelly. 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN. 

I  ask  your  Ladyship's  pardon — whatever  you  do  me  the 
honour  to  recommend. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  61 

LORD  FITZROY. 

Lady  Rosstrevor,  will  you  take  wine? 

[The  butler  advances  with  some  sherry  ;  Mr.  Grimshaw  pushes  it 
on  one  side,  helps  her  to  hock,  and  intercepting  Lord  Fitzroy's 
bow,  drinks  with  her  himself.] 

LORD  FITZROY,  (to  Lady  Emily.) 

Come,  that's  cool.  Parlez  moi  du  pere  directeur  apres 
celd. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (still  in  conversation  with  Mr.  O'Callaghan.) 

Perhaps  there  never  were  more  obvious  causes  for  evident 
effects  than  those  of  the  wretchedness  around  us.  But  the 
remedy,  if  not  unknown,  is,  at  least,  apparently  unattainable. 
For  seven  hundred  years,  the  history  of  Ireland  has  remained 
the  same  ; — misgovernment,  "  one  and  indivisable."  What  is 
the  secret  of  this?  Do  you  know,  I  am  sometimes  half  in- 
clined to  suspect  that  there  may  be  something  of  race  at  the 
bottom  of  all.  Nothing  is  so  like  the  physical  character  of 
the  ancient  Celts,  as  that  of  the  modern  Irish, — I  mean  the 
mere  Irish. 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN,    (wiping  his   mouth,   throws   his    napkin   on 
his  plate,  and  gives  himself  up  wholly  to  his  subject.) 

To  be  sure,  sir.  I  am  a  studier  of  races.  Every  man 
who  is  fond  of  dogs  and  horses,  and  all  the  poor  brute  bastes 
in  the  creation,  as  I  am,  will  be  a  believer  in  the  hereditary 
temperament  of  the  different  great  families  of  the  earth. 
There,  sir,  sits  my  neighbour,  Jerry  Galbraith.  Look  at 
that  face  of  his.  [All  turn  their  eyes  on  Galbraith,  xoho  is 
"  bothered  entirely,^''  at  being  thus  singled  out.^  Well,  sir, 
all  the  world  over,  I  would  say  that  was  an  Irish  graft  on  a 
Scotch  stock.  Thin  sir,  you  need  not  be  after  studying  the 
genealogical  table  of  the  ancient  and  respectable  families  of 
the  Polypuses  and  the  Grindalls,  to  know  them  as  William- 
ites, — Dutch  transplanted  to  Ireland — a  mixture  of  the  tulip 
and  the  trefoil. 

LORD  FITZROY,  (to  Lady  Emily.) 
Yes,  by  Jove,  gaudy  and  creeping. 

[The  Polypuses  and  Grimshaws  redden  with  anger.] 


6^  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN. 

Then  look,  Mr.  Sackville,  at  your  own  high  Anglo- 
Norman  faces — another  animal  altogether,  sir. 

[Great  symptoms  of  impatience  and  indignation  among  the  Irish 
aristocracy.] 

DR.  POLYPUS,  (in  a  whisper  to  Lady  Emily.) 

This  is  going  a  little  too  far.  His  father,  madam,  is  a 
poor  farmer  on  your  ladyship's  estate.  I  remember  that 
impudent  fellow,  holding  the  plough,  and  dropping  it,  to  run 
to  the  hedge  schools,  until  he  was  sixteen.  He  was  then 
transferred  by  that  old  Jesuit,  Mr.  Everard,  the  parish  priest, 
(whose  curate  he  now  is,)  to  Ma3'nooth  College, — the  house 
of  refuge,  Lad)^  Emily,  for  all  rebellion  and  idolatry. 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN,  (to  Mr.  Sackville.) 

It's  thrue  for  you,  sir.  It's  among  the  pisantry  that  you 
will  find  the  raal  ancient,  ould  Celts,  Mr.  Sackville  ; — up  in 
the  mountains  of  Munster  and  Connaught,  the  Daltries  and 
Cunnamara  ;  and  down  in  the  loAvlands,  among  the  lower 
classes,  like  myself.  As  to  the  brass-buttoned  gentr}-,  as  we 
call  them  at  the  fair  of  Ballynasloe,  they're  all  furreigners, 
sir,  Danes,  Saxons,  Spaniards,  (or  Milesians,  if  you  will,) 
Normans,  Allemans,  and  Dutch.  Th'  ould  saying,  sir,  that 
when  any  one  was  missing  in  Europe, — Amandatus  est  in 
Hiberniam,  is  not  truer,  than  the  fact,  that  every  Che  Shein* 
of  a  furreign  fellow,  that  was  on  the  Schaugliran^  or,  as  the 
Frinch  say,  on  the  pave,  at  home, with  nothing  to  live  by 
but  his  sword  and  his  swagger,  came  skipping  across  the 
herring-pond,  to  cut  and  carve  a  nice  slice  of  poor  ancient 
ould  Ireland,  for  his  share  of  the  plunder, — bating  back  the 
original  residenters  to  the  mountains  or  woods  ;  or,  as  ould 
Richard  Regan  says  in  his  Chronicle,  "  waiting  to  hunt  the 
Irish,  till  the  laves  were  oil  the  trees."     Och  !  Worristru  ! 

[The  English  party  laugh.     The  church  and  new-light  are  bursting 
with  indignation.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 
But  the  intruder  was  sure  to  be  beaten  back  himself,  in 

♦  An  Irish  phrase,  applied  to  a  swaggerer — literally,  "Who  is  he?" 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  63 

his  turn,  by  some  new  comer,  some  more  puissant  invader. 
It  is  the  history  of  all  nations  ;  and  not  peculiar  to  Ireland. 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN,  (filling  himself  a  glass  of  wine  and  tossing  it  off) 

Oh  !  by  no  means,  Mr.  Sackville.  For  look  to  thim 
Anglo-Normans.  Since  iver  they  left  the  track  of  their 
traheens  in  the  soil,  there  they  are,  rooted  like  docks. 
They've  held  fast  by  the  fiddle,  as  the  clown  says  at  Donny- 
brook  fair,  sticking  like  burrs,  and  flourishing  like  mustard- 
seed,  to  this  day.  They  are  the  fih's,  (which  we  translate 
Fitzes,)  the  Geraldines,  the  Moriscoes,  the  de  Talbots,  and 
the  de  Botelers,  six  hundred  years  and  more,  keeping  the 
place  from  the  right  owners. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (laughing.) 

Six  hundred  years  are  no  brief  possession,  Mr.  O'Callag- 
han.  But  I  also  am  a  victim  of  innovation  ;  the  Norman 
adventurers  having  treated  the  Lumleys,  my  Saxon  ances- 
tors in  England,  as  they  did  your  forefathers  in  Ireland. 
Yet  I  hold  that  it  is  neither  for  the  pride,  nor  the  policy  of  a 
nation,  to  be  too  prompt  to  acknowledge  such  humiliating 
facts  ;  still  less  to  complain  of  their  duration.  Complaint  is 
the  language  of  weakness,  an  acknowledgment  of  inferiority, 
physical  or  moral,  of  race  or  of  civilization.  Such  reverses 
are  universal.  It  was  so  with  the  Greeks  and  the  Romans. 
In  our  own  times  France  has  conquered  all  Europe ;  and 
though  forced  to  recoil,  she  has  let  fall  seeds,  to  perpetuate 
the  remembrance  of  her  temporary  supremacy,  which  are 
now  springing  up,  and  are  destined  to  bear  fruits  that  will 
change  definitively  the  character  and  habits  of  the  civilized 
world. 

THE  CHURCH  AND  NEW  LIGHT,  (in  mutters.) 
Pretty  seed — Atheism  and  Jacobinism ! 

FATHER  O'CALLAGHAN,  (in  like  murmurs.) 

The  philosophy  of  the  Frinch  liberals  :  but  any  how, 
there's  life  in  a  muscle,  as  Father  O'Toole  says  of  the 
Jesuits ;  and  the  Gallican  church,  phcenix-like,  will  yet 
spring  from  its  own  ashes  in  spite  of  all  the  Voltaires  in  the 
world. 

7 


64  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

There  is  no  wrestling  with  events.  They  are  more  power* 
ful  than  men.  The  fate  of  Ireland  was  inevitable.  It  is  her 
interest,  now,  to  forget  the  past ;  and  to  cut  into  the  line  of 
march,  Avhich  is  leading  on  the  age  to  the  far  more  mighty- 
future. 

[The  Church  and  State  again  thrown  back.} 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN,  (vehemently.) 

I  don't  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Sackville,  as  far  as  Ireland 
goes.  Ireland  is  the  last  country  on  the  face  of  the  creation 
that  should  forget  the  past.  It  is  all  she  has, — the  memory 
of  the  time  when  she  was  "  great,  glorious,  and  free." 

LORD  FITZROY,  (dressing  an  orange  with  various  condiments.) 
When  was  that,  Mr.  O'Callagan? 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN,  (intemperately.) 

When  was  that,  my  lord?  Long  before  your  lordship^'s 
ancestors  left  their  Bicoque  in  Normandy,  and  came  over  as 
officiers  de  bouche,  in  the  domestic  establishment  of  William 
the  Conqueror  of  England. 

LORD  FITZROY,  (cooly,  and  slicing  his  orange.) 

Do  you  know,  Mr.  O'Callaghan,  that  I  am  vastly  proud 
of  that  descent.  An  officier  de  bouche  means  a  cook, — in 
modern  parlance,  an  artist ;  and  the  art  itself  marks  the 
highest  point  of  civilization.  Think,  sir,  of  the  vast  dilier- 
ence  between  the  man  who  cooks  a  cutlet  to  a  turn,  and  he 
who  devours  it  half  raw,  after  he  has  coddled  it  between  two 
hot  stones  !  The  first  was  my  ingenious  predecessor,  the  lat- 
ter was  doubtless  yours.  Both  perhaps  were  great  in  their 
calling  :  but  diet  makes  the  man.  The  masticator  of  tough, 
sodden  collops,  was  a  different  personage,  depend  upon  it, 
from  him  of  the  cutlet.  Allow  me  to  send  you  a  touch  of 
my  hereditary  office.  You  will  find  this  dressed  orange  a 
conclusive  argument. 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN,  (with  perfect  good  bumour.) 

With  all  my  heart,  my  lord.  Will  you  allow  me  the 
honour  of  a  glass  of  wine  ? 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  65 

MR.  FITZROY. 

What  shall  it  be  !     Hock  ? 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN. 

I've  not  the  laste  objection  in  life,  my  lord.  Here's  Mr. 
Galbraith  choking  ;  shall  we  take  him  in  ?  [Fills  Mr. 
Gal braith's  glass.  They  boio  and  drink.]  But,  Mr.  Sack- 
ville  ;  being-,  as  I  am  sure  you  are,  a  good  friend  to  Ireland, 
I  should  wish  you  to  feel  the  importance  of  keeping  up  the 
national  spirit,  by  preserving  the  glorious  remimbrance  of 
past  times.  Let  not  Ireland  forget  what  she  was,  and  what 
she  yet  may  be.     As  our  native  and  immortal  bard  says, 

"  Let  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old." 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (smiling.) 
What  ? 

*■  When  her  faithless  sons  betrayed  her?'* 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN,  (vehemently.) 

No,  sir, — ^that's  not  the  reading. — *'  Ere  her  faithless  sons 
betrayed  her  !" 

"  And  Malachi  wore  the  collar  of  gold, 
That  he  won  from  the  proud  invader." 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (shaking  his  head.) 

Oh!  that  collar  of  gold  !  It  was  still  a  collar.  But,  my 
dear  sir,  such  signs  and  images  of  the  worst  times  in  the  his- 
tory of  humanity,  have  served  the  purpose  for  which  they 
were  new  burnished,  and  brought  once  more  forward.  The 
piece  dc  cir Constance,  in  which  they  were  introduced  as  ap- 
propriate machinery,  has  been  brought,  thank  God  !  to  a  suc- 
cessful conclusion  ;  and  they  should  now  be  returned  to  the 
old  property  room  of  Irish  vanity,  as  nO  longer  applicable  to 
the  wants  of  the  times.  I  must  repeat,  that  men,  so  influen- 
tial as  yourself  in  your  community,  might  teach  with  good 
effect  the  necessity  of  forgetting  the  past,  and  of  concentrating 
all  the  force  of  the  country  upon  the  present, — its  peace, 
prosperity,  and  moral  improvement. 


66  MANOR  SACKVILLE. 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN,  (earnestly.) 

Oh,  Mr.  Sackville,  it  is  neither  for  the  present  interest,  nor 
for  the  future  fortunes  of  the  country — neither  for  her  pride 
nor  her  glory,  that  Ireland  should  forget  the  past.  She 
should  not  forget  that  her  soil,  where  for  centuries  "  many  a 
saint  and  many  a  hero  trod,"  has  been  bathed  in  the  blood  of 
her  brave  sons,  who  were  deprived  of  their  liberty,  and  of 
their  ancient,  national,  and  venerated  church. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

But  your  poetical  saints  and  heroes,  in  plain  English,  were 
idle  monks  and  ferocious  banditti — alike  barbarous,  bigoted, 
and  living  by  the  plunder  and  degradation  of  the  people. 
They  have  no  longer  advocates  or  admirers  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  save  only  in  that  house  of  refuge  for  all  by-gone 
institutions  and  forms, — Ireland.  It  is  her  unlucky  pecu- 
liarity to  have  been  thrown  back  on  the  past,  through  dis- 
trust of  the  future  :  and  partly,  perhaps,  by  her  remote  geo- 
graphical position — partly  by  the  denial  of  education — to 
have  been  excluded  from  the  lights  which  have  beamed  upon 
the  rest  of  Europe.  But  a  new  era  is  come  ;  your  religion 
is  free.  The  spirit  of  the  age  will  no  longer  tolerate  that 
proconsular  government  which  has  so  long  impeded  the  na- 
tional energies.  No  longer,  therefore,  degraded,  you  should 
learn  to  bear  the  truth  ;  and  with  a  career  opened  to  praise, 
you  should  not  seek  to  be  flattered.  The  past,  even  if  your 
early  history  be  not  altogether  a  delusion,  is  at  least  inappli- 
cable to  your  present  position.  Other  virtues,  other  energies, 
than  those  of  your  barbarous  ancestors,  are  necessary  to  lead 
you  to  prosperity  and  happiness.  You  want  not  saints  but 
citizens  ; — not  heroes,  but  peaceable,  industrious,  and  calcu- 
lating utilitarians. 


MR.  O'CALLAGHAN. 

O  none  of  3^our  Utilitarians,  none  of  your  Benthams  ! 
Pathriotism,  Mr.  Sackville,  pathriotism  taches  another  lesson. 
Where  else  can  our  fine  pisantr}-  lain  to  love  their  country, 
and  devote  themselves  to  its  freedom,  but  in  the  records  of 
the  courage  and  piety  of  their  ancestors — the  pages  of  O'Fla- 
herty,  Keating,  and  O'Hallorum  ? 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  67 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Oh !  Mr.  O'Callaghan  ;  that  is  no  declamation  of  yours  ; 
you  are  evidently  too  clever,  too  clear-sighted  a  person,  to  be 
the  dupe  of  such  vague  generalities,  or  monstrous  fables,  as 
the  authors  advance,  to  whom  you  allude.  You  must  know 
and  feel,  that  your  peasantry  are  no  longer  the  finest  in  the 
■world  ;  whatever  they  may  have  been.  Neglect,  oppression, 
want,  and  the  influence  of  others  over  their  deep,  dark  igno- 
rance, have  degraded  them  in  too  many  instances,  to  the  level 
of  the  brute  animal,  who  shares  their  hut  and  their  scanty 
food.  Their  very  nature  seems  changed.  Human  life  has 
ceased  to  be  valued  among  them  ;  they  take  it  without  re- 
morse,— as  they  part  with  it  without  regret ;  and  if  the  soil 
of  Ireland  is  still  bathed  in  blood,  it  is  not  drawn  by  her  ene- 
mies, but  by  her  infuriated  children. 

[Mr.  O'Callaghan  exhibits  marks  of  vehement  impatience,  but  he  is 
anticipated  in  his  eagerness  to  reply,  by  Dr.  Polypus,  who  raises 
his  voice,  and  speaks  in  a  dogmatic  tone.  Lady  Emily's  quick  eye 
glances  rapidly  round;  she  is  breathlessly  attentive.  Galbraith 
remains  buried  in  humorous  consternation,  and  is  subserviently 
silent.  The  Saints  heave,  and  pant,  and  wait  their  call.  Lord 
Fitzroy  is  much  amused.  Lady  Julia,  and  Clarence  Herbert,  have 
neither  eye  nor  ears  for  what  is  passing  ;  and  are  deeply  engaged 
with — each  other.] 


DR.  POLYPUS. 

Mr.  Sackville,  you  have  hit  the  point.  The  present  dis- 
turbed and  ferocious — but  I  have  neither  words  nor  breath  to 
express  myself  on  the  present  state  of  Ireland,  the  worst  the 
world  ever  witnessed.  It  is,  as  you  say,  partly  owing  to  the 
present  anti-protestant  government,  and  partly  to  a  set  of  mis- 
chievous men  in  the  Roman  Catholic  church,  who  are  exer- 
cising the  most  frightful  influence  over  the  minds  of  the  lower 
orders.  The  late  otherwise  excellent  ministry  were  bullied, 
in  a  moment  of  weakness,  into  that  fatal  measure,  the  emanci- 
pation of  the  Catholics,  by  those  w^ho  constitute  the  present 
government ; — men,  who  are  not  only  plotting  the  revival  of 
popery  in  this  country,  but,  by  the  frightful  system  of  educa- 
tion they  have  introduced,  under  the  pretext  of  rendering  it 
national,  are  undermining  Christianity  itself.  The  horrid 
profanation  of  mutilating  God's  holy  word,  can  only  proceed 
from  the  worst  designs  ;  but  worse  than  that — they  have  intro- 

7* 


68  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

duced  Roman  Catholic  versions  of  the  Scriptures,  to  seduce 
and  corrupt  the  Protestant  youth,  even  in  their  own  schools. 

[The  Saints  groan  in  spirit.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 
Both  versions,  sir,  are  given,  I  understand. 

DR.  POLYPUS. 

But  why  both  ?  What  have  we  of  the  established  religion 
to  do  with  the  impositions  and  interpolations  of  the  Catholic 
church? 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Both  are  given,  because  the  children  to  be  educated  are  of 
both  persuasions ;  and  the  extracts  from  the  Scriptures  are 
intended  for  both. 

ARCHDEACON  GRINDALL. 

We  of  the  Established  Chnrch,  Mr.  Sackville,  are  satisfied 
with  the  admirable  version  of  the  Scriptures  given  at  the  re- 
formation. We  think  that  "  Repent  ye,  for  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  is  at  hand,"  is  quite  as  correct,  if  not  as  profitable,  a 
translation,  as  "  Do  penance.'''' 

MR.  GRIMSHAW. 

There  is  no  such  doctrine  as  penance  in  the  Bible.  Pen- 
ance, sir,  is  a  filthy  rag  of  Babylon,  and  implies  a  reliance  on 
human  works,  to  the  exclusion  of  that  healing  faith,  which  is 
man's  only  claim  to  salvation. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

As  a  Protestant,  I  have  my  own  opinion  as  to  which  is  the 
more  correct  translation  :  but  government,  sir,  has  nothing  to 
do  with  polemics.  Conciliation  was  its  object ;  and  when 
both  translations  were  set  down,  every  thing  that  fairness  re- 
quires was  effected. 

ARCHDEACON  GRINDALL. 

Sir,  it  is  the  Bible  we  want. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


69 


MR.  GRIMSHAW. 

Aye,  sir,  the  whole  Bible,  and  nothing  but  the  Bible. 

ARCHDEACON  GRINDALL. 

We  do  not  want  the  Latin  idiom  substituted  for  the  ori- 
ginal. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

But  what  was  the  original,  archdeacon  ?  in  which  of  the 
dialects  of  a  country,  (where  so  many  were  spoken,)  did  the 
Baptist  address  himself  to  the  muhitude,  composed  of  all  na- 
tions ? 

LADY  EMILY,  (to  Lord  Fitzroy.) 
How  very  amusing  this  is  ! 

LORD  FITZROY. 

A  little  digressive,  but  not  the  less  interesting. 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN,  (dogmatically.) 

The  Bible,  by  itself,  sir,  will  give  you  no  light  on  that 
subject ;  for  that,  Mr.  Sackville,  you  must  look,  as  your 
church  has  looked  for  so  many  other  subjects,  to  those  early 
traditions  bequeathed  by  the  apostles  to  that  faithful  church, 
which  they  founded  almost  in  the  presence  of  Him,  to  whom 
be  all  praise.  [Blesses  himself.)  This  is  only  one  of  the 
thousand  instances  in  which  the  keenest  polemical  scent  is 
thrown  out,  if  it  takes  the  Scriptures  for  its  sole  guide. 

MR.  GRIMSHAW,  (with  awful  solemnity.) 
O  ye  of  little  faith  !     Hear  me,  that  ye  may  profit. 

MR.  O'CALLAGHAN",  (rising  to  his  full  height,  and  raising  his  so- 
norous voice.) 

Hear  me ;  for  I  will  be  heard  out,  Mr.  Grimshaw  : — For 
more  than  an  hundred  years,  you  of  the  Reformation  have 
trod  us  under  foot ;  but  I  am  now  an  emancipated  Catholic. 
You  must  hear  me ;  and  cannot  torture,  ruin,  and  degrade 


70  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

me  for  speaking  the  truth,  (what  I  at  least  believe  to  be  the 
truth.)  You  cannot  now  seize  the  colt,  which  will  carry 
me  from  this  door  in  a  few  minutes,  and  possess  yourelf, 
for  five  pounds,  of  the  papist  baste  that  is  worth  forty.  I  tell 
you  then,  you  gentlemen  of  the  Reformation,  and  you  of  the 
New^  Reformation,  you  must  both  come  back  to  us.  You 
are  in  a  cleft  stick ; — faith  or  reason,  Catholicism  or  Deism. 
It  is  the  tradition  of  the  true  church,  alone,  that  can  save  you 
from  being  split  into  myriads  of  sects.  You  are  carrying 
on  a  guerilla  war  among  yourselves;  you  agree  in  nothing, 
but  to  hate,  calumniate,  and  persecute  us.  It  is  you  who  have 
torn  the  Lord's  seamless  garment,  the  emblem  of  unity  and 
peace.  You  have  deserted  authority  ;  and  yet  you  dare  not 
call  on  reason  to  justify  your  several  opinions.     It  is 


DR.  POLYPUS,  (interrupting  him.) 

As  a  member  of  the  church  of  England,  as  a  dignitary  of  that 
church,  I  cannot  sit  by,  and  hear  the  minister  of  a  religion 
teeming  with  idolatry,  advocate  tenets,  which  in  other  and 
better  times  Avere  forbidden  by  the  law  as  superstitious  and 
traitorous, — a  blasphemous  religion,  or  rather  a  church  with- 
out a  religion. 

LORD  FITZROY,  (in  an  under  tone.) 

Strong  epithets  those — "  hard  usage,  by  Jove."  [Mr,  Sack- 
ville  nods  assent.^ 

MR.  GRIMSHAW. 

A  church,  which  rejects  the  Bible. 

LADY  ROSSTREVOR. 

A  church,  where  the  creature  is  every  thing,  and  the  Cre- 
ator forofotten. 


MISS  GRIMSHAW. 
The  abomination  of  abominations. 

MISS  MULLINS,  (half asleep.) 
Amen  ! 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  71 


MRS.  GRAFTON  AND  MR.   BINNS,  (interrupting  a  spiritual  and 
spiiited  flirtation.) 

Amen,  indeed,  as  good  Miss  Mullins  observes. 


MR.  SACKVILLE,  (after  waiting  for  his  opportunity.) 

Nay,  nay,  we  must  not  all  bear  down  on  Mr.  O'Callag- 
han  at  once.  I  belong  to  neither  of  your  creeds.  Permit  me, 
therefore,  to  part  the  combatants.  For  myself,  indeed,  I 
cannot  admit  the  authority  of  tradition  ;  and  Mr.  O'Callag- 
han  will  forgive  me,  if  1  say,  that  it  is  the  rule  of  barbarism, 
and  the  learning  of  ignorance.  A  civilized  age  Vvdll  not  ac- 
cept it,  save  only  when  in  want  of  better  evidence,  and  when 
its  dicta  are  confirmed  by  reason  and  experience.  Neither 
can  I  agree  with  him  that  he  has  succeeded  by  its  aid  in  at- 
taining to  that  unity,  of  which  he,  as  a  Roman  Catholic, 
boasts.  Remember  sir,  the  absurdities  of  your  casuists, — 
the  warfare  of  your  Dominicans  and  the  Franciscans, — the 
endless  disputes  of  the  Molinists  and  the  Jansenists.  I  agree, 
however,  with  you,  that  the  establishment,  in  adopting  so 
much  of  your  discipline,  as  goes  to  bow  us  in  a  blind  sub- 
mission to  its  own  articles  of  faith,  has  placed  itself  in  a 
false  position.  You  are  both  seeking  an  unity  of  opinion 
which  is  not  attainable  from  men  ;  which,  not  being  accord- 
ing to  the  natural  law,  cannot  be  according  to  the  revealed. 
But  while  I  protest  against  a  prostration  of  intellect,  to  the 
authority  either  of  Roman  or  protestant  orthodoxy,  I  can- 
not hold  myself  answerable  for  the  errors  of  all  who  unite 
with  me  in  the  independent  search  of  truth.  We  must  each 
be  judged  by  his  own  doctrines  ;  and  one  cannot  be  confuted 
by  the  other.  Yet  why  judge  at  all  ?  What  I  have  heard 
to-day  tends  only  to  satisfy  me  of  what  I  have  long  thought, 
— that  spiritual  pride,  and  the  thirst  for  spiritual  dominion,  are 
among  the  most  powerful  causes  of  Irish  misery.  I  see  in  your 
irreconcileable  disputes,  and  common  intolerance,  the  great- 
est obstacles,  not  only  to  domestic  peace,  but  to  every  com- 
mon effort  for  your  common  improvement.  It  is  the  curse 
of  this  country,  that  it  is  overcharged  with  a  fi®ry  zeal, 
which  is  as  fatal  to  every  other  virtue,  as  it  is  to  Christain 
charity.  It  is  this  morbid  excess  and  derangement  of  the 
religious  feeling,  or  rather  the  ignorance  in  which  these  are 
founded,  that  has  rendered  Ireland  the  prey  of  every  impos- 
tor, who,  under  the  cloak  of  piety,  of  patriotism,  or  of  politi- 


73  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

cal  ascendency,  has  sought  to  mislead  her.  False  zealots  in 
religion,  false  patriots  in  politics,  of  every  shade  and  colour, 
inculcate  a  blind  respect  for  authority;  and  Catholic  and 
Protestant,  orange  and  green,  alike  agree  in  hating  and  fear- 
ing the  man  who  dares  to  think  for  himself,  and  act  accord- 
ing to  the  dictates  of  an  independent  conscience.  Give  to 
Ireland  knowledge,  and  you  will  soon  give  her  repose  ;  give 
her  repose,  and  her  fierce  energies  will  be  turned  upon  her 
own  interests,  and  find  a  healthy  and  happy  scope  in  a  well- 
regulated  and  productive  industry. 

MR.  GRIMSHAW,  (rising  with  a  theatrical  and  imposing  air,  and  over- 
whelming the  attempts  of  Mr.  O'Callaghan  and  of  Dr.  Polypus  to  speak.) 

Peace  !  I  invoke,  I  command  it,  in  the  name  of  Him,  by 
whose  call  I  speak.  Ye  have  heard  each  other.  Will  ye 
not  hear  the  Lord  ?  [He pauses,  looks  around,  throicsup  his 
head,  shakes  back  his  long  black  hair^  and  rolls  his  eyes,  so  as 
to  assume  an  appearance  something  beiiceen  that  of  the  Hev. 
Mr.  Irving  and  Paganini.]  Oh  !  ye  who  deceive  yourselves, 
for  the  truth  is  not  in  ye,  hear  the  word  !  For  the  wis- 
dom of  the  world  is  foolishness  ;  and,  from  the  beginning, 
the  tree  of  knowledge  was  forbidden  to  man.  Ask  your- 
selves, then,  do  you  enjoy  a  clear  manifestation  of  grace  in 
your  souls  ?  Have  you  a  constant  power  over  all  sin  ?  Are 
you  determined  to  employ  all  your  time  in  working  for  the 
Lord  ?  and  know  ye  that  justification  cometh  by  faith  alone  ? 
Hear  what  the  new  St.  Paul  saith.  True  religion  does 
not  consist  in  these  three  things, — the  living  harmless, — - 
using  the  means  of  grace, — and  doing  much  good  ;  for  a 
man  m.ay  do  all  these,  and  yet  have  no  true  religion.  It  is 
by  prayer  alone  that  we  can  hope  for  grace  :  and  I  invoke 
ye  all,  solemnly  as  Christians,  to  join  in  holy  prayer.  Let 
us  pray. 

[Mr.  Grimshaw  falls  on  his  knees  ;  the  Saints  follow  his  example  ;  the 
High  Church  hesitate  for  a  moment,  with  an  expression  of  impa- 
tient indignation  ;  but  at  length  yield  to  the  foice  of  example. 
The  English  party  startled,  lean  over  the  backs  of  their  chairs. 
Galbraith  flops  down  behind  the  remains  of  the  surloin.  Mr. 
O'Callaghan  buttons  up  his  coat  to  the  neck,  picks  up  his  hat  and 
whip,  and,  obedient  only  to  the  authority  of  Mother  Church, 
stalking  across  the  room  with  great  ponderosity  of  tread  and  creak 
of  boot,  leaves  the  company,  and  is  seen  galloping  with  his  dogs 
by  the  windows  at  full  speed.  Mr.  Sackville  retreats  into  the 
drawing-room,  which  he  paces  up  and  down,  in  utter  disgust  at 
the  insolent  assumption,  ignorance,  bad  taste,  and  profane  intru- 
sion of  so  solemn  an  observance  at  such  a  moment.] 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  73 


Mr.  SACKVILLE,  (repeats  to  himself.) 

Les  hommes,  la  plus  part,  sont  etrangement  faits, 
Dans  la  juste  nature,  on  ne  les  voit  jamais  ! 
La  raison,  a  pour  eux  des  bornes  trop  petites  ; 
En  chaque  caraclere  ils  passant  les  limites  ; 
Et  la  plus  noble  chose  ils  gattent  souvent, 
Pour  la  vouloir  outrer,  et  pousser,  trop  avant. 

[He  listens.  There  is  a  momentary  silence  ;  and  he  re-approaches  the 
party  as  Mr.  Grimshaw  is  givmg  out  a  hymn.] 

MR.  GRIMSHAW,  (in  a  loud  twanging  voice.) 

"  Oh !  why  did  I  so  late  thee  know  ?" 

[Lady  Rosstrevor,  an  accomplished  musician,  sings  forth  a  solo,  with 
great  expression,  and  an  air  of  languishing  devotion.] 

LADY  ROSSTREVOR. 

Ah,  why  did  I  so  late  thee  know, 

Thou  lovlier  than  the  sons  of  men  ; 
Ah  !   why  did  I  not  sooner  go 

To  thee,  assuager  of  all  pain  ? 
Ashamed  I  sigh,  and  only  mourn 

That  I  so  late  to  thee  did  turn, 

CHORUS  OF  SAINTS. 

Ashamed  we  sigh,  and  only  mourn, 
That  we  so  late  to  thee  did  turn. 

[Lady  Emily  joins  in,  and  sings  con  amm-e.  Mr.  Binns  observes  iNIias 
Mullins  watching  him  and  Mrs.  Grafton.] 

MR.  BINNS. 

Sing  up,  Miss  Mullins  ;  and  mind  your  hymn. 

[Miss  Mullins  "  sings  up,"  and  puts  them  all  out,  by  chiming  in,  in  G 
major  to  their  D  minor.  The  English  party,  in  want  of  "  all  power 
of  face,"  stifle  with  laughter.  The  Church  party  rise,  with  an 
expression  of  contemptuous  ridicule,  to  lake  leave.  The  groom 
of  the  chambers  enters.) 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBERS.      - 

Lady  Rosstrevor's  carriage  stops  the  way.    Dr.  Polypuses 
carriaga-is  coming  round.     Mr.  Binn's  carriage  is  up. 

LADY  ROSSTREVOR,  (taking  Lady  Emily's  hand.) 
Farewell,  dear  Lady  Emily.     We  part  in  a  better  spirit 


74  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

than  we  met.  Let  me  look  forward,  then,  to  an  early  and 
more  uninterrupted  interview.  Let  me  hope  that  you  are 
come  amongst,  indeed,  for  the  bettering  the  condition  of  the 
dark,  lost  creatures,  over  whom  providence  has  placed  you. 
Oh  !  Lady  Emily,  I  have  much  to  say  and  to  show  you  ! 
Before  that  divine  man  came  among  us,  this  neighbourhood 
was  a  waste  and  howling  wilderness.  The  benighted  people  of 
Sally  Noggin  sat  in  the  gloomy  shadows  of  death.  It  was, 
as  Mogherow  now  is,  under  the  power  of  the  priests  of  Baal ! 
On  Suaday  next,  after  chapel,  we  are  to  have  a  class-meeting, 
at  Rosstrevor  Park,  of  the  dear  people.  Could  we  hope  to 
see  you  amongst  us  ?  [In  a  sweet  and  subdued  voice.] 

"  I  hold  with  thee  a  trembling  hand, 
And  will  not  let  thee  go." 

[Mr.  Sackville,  who  has  stood  impatiently  watching  this  colloquy, 
hastens  to  Lady  Rosstrevor,  and  drawing  her  arm  through  his, 
hands  her  out  to  her  carriage,  followed  by  her  tail.  The  Poly- 
puses surround  Lady  Emily  ;  who,  pale  and  exhausted,  hangs 
over  the  back  of  her  chair ;  while  the  Grindalls  solicit  Lady  Julia 
and  the  gentlemen,  for  various  subscriptions,  charities,  bazaars,  &c.] 

MRS.  POLYPUS. 

The  Dean  and  myself  are  most  desirous  to  prevail  on 
your  ladyship  and  Mr.  Sackville  to  give  us  the  pleasure  of 
your  company  on  Monday  next  at  dinner.  You  will  meet 
all  the  persons  of  consequence  and  distinction  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, all  whom  you  ought  to  know. 

DR.  POLYPUS. 

And  we  are  the  more  anxious  for  that  day,  as  it  is  the 
grand  anniversary  meeting  of  our  society  for  converting  the 
Jews  all  over  the  world. 


MRS.  POLYPUS. 

I  have  brought  a  little  programme  of  the  proceedings,  and 
a  list  of  the  subscribers,  by  which  Lady  Emily  will  see 
that  the  principal  nobility  and  gentry  of  Ireland  are  among 
its  patrons.  Might  I  solicit  a  name  so  distinguished  as  that 
of  Lady  Emily  Sackville  ? — no  matter  how  small  the  contri- 
bution to  the  good  work. 

[Takes  a  gold  pencil  out  of  her  sack,  and  presents  it  to  Lady  Emily. 
At  that  moment  Mr.  Sackville  returns,  and  takes  the  pencil  out  of 
his  wife's  hand.] 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  75 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

What  are  you  going  to  do,  love  ? 

[Lady  Emily,  scarcely  able  to  articulate,  from  fatigue,  nods  to  Mre. 
Polypus  to  explain.] 

MRS.  POLYPUS. 

Oh,  Mr.  Sackville  !  her  ladyship  has  benevolently  con- 
sented to  become  a  member  of  the  Society  for  the  conversion 
of  the  Jews. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

I  beg  pardon,  madam  ;  but  you  must  excuse  her.  She  is 
bound,  in  Christian  humility,  not  to  interfere  with  the  con- 
version of  the  Je^YS.  That  which  the  Messiah  did  not  effect, 
when  he  was  among  them,  my  little  wife  has  not  the  temer- 
ity to  attempt.  Besides,  foreign  charities  can  have  no  claim 
on  her,  till  justice  is  satisfied  at  home.  She  has  a  great 
national  debt  to  assist  in  paying  to  this  country,  the  long  ac- 
cumulating debt  of  the  overweening  rich  to  the  over-wretched 
poor. 

[Mrs.  Polypus  backs  coldly  out,  and  takes  the  Archdeacon's  arm,  to 
whom,  as  she  proceeds  to  her  carriage,  she  mutters  some  acrimo- 
nious remark,  of  which  the  words  "jargon,"  "infidelity,"  are 
alone  audible.] 


MRS.  GRINDALL,  (advancing  to  Mrs.  Polypus's  abdicated  place.) 

Well,  I  hope  i"  maybe  more  fortunate  with  my  little 
Bizar.  Lady  Emily,  the  ladies  of  the  Barony  of  Mogherow 
■will  hold  their  annual  bizar  for  the  benefit  of  the  distressed 
poor,  at  the  Archdeaconry,  on  Tuesday  next.  Should  Lady 
Julia  and  your  ladyship  honour  us  with  any  of  your  inge- 
nious little  works,  embroidered  pincushions,  caps,  card- 
cases,  skreens,  on  which  you  will  put  your  own  prices,  it 
will  give  great  eclat  to  the  charity.  Or,  if  you  would  con- 
descend to  hold  a  counter 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Excuse  me,  madam  ;  I  can  answer  for  Lady  Emily,  that 
she  will  not.  She,  as  well  as  myself,  is  perfectly  aware  of 
the  mischievous  tendency  of  these  frippery  charities,  which 

8 


76  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

rob  the  independently  industrious  of  their  due  reward,  to 
benefit  a  few  pampered  favourites  and  sycophants  of  the 
capricious  and  the  idle  rich, — who  most  commonly,  after 
raising  in  them  undue  expectations  of  unmerited  support, 
leave  them  in  sudden  destitution,  more  helpless  and  more 
miserable  than  they  first  found  them. 

MRS.  GRINDALL. 

Oh,  Mr.  Sackville,  you  are  very  severe ;  you  see  these 
excellent  institutions  in  a  very  false  view.  I  suppose  the 
saints  have  already  been  plying  you  with  anonymous  letters  ; 
as  Priest  O'Callaghan  tries  to  write  down  the  doctor's 
*<  Bible  only"  day  schools — but 

[Enter  footman  who  speaks] 

The  archdeacon  desires  me  to  say,  madam,  that  the 
carriage  Vv^aits. 

[Mrs.  Grindall   makes  a  cold  curtsey,  and  exit,  accompanied  by 
Galbraith.J 


MISS  POLYPUS,  (on  the  arm  of  Captain  Blackacre.) 

Good  day.  Lady  Emily.  Your  ladyship  will  find  a  little 
basket  of  trifles  on  the  drawing-room  table, — little  works 
done  at  mamma's  school  for  charity.  They  are  all  priced  ; 
and  if  your  ladyship  would  allow  them  to  remain,  they  may 
be  disposed  of  to  advantage,  for  the  benefit  of  some  very 
distressed  creatures. 

[Exit.  The  last  of  the  visitors  drive  off;  Mr.  Sackville,  Lord  Fitzroy, 
Clarence  Herbert,  and  Lady  Julia,  looking  after  them  from  the 
windows.  Lady  Emily  seated,  and  leanin'g  on  the  back  of  her 
chair,  sighs  deeply.] 

LORD  FITZROY,  (putting  up  his  glass.) 
What  a  cargo  of  ignorance,  pretension,  and  vulgarity  ! 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Yes  ;  it  is  a  pretty  specimen  of  the  society  of  the  country, 
of  the  higher  classes,  as  they  call  themselves.  What  can  be 
done  for  a  people,  whose  destinies  are  committed  to  such 
hands  ! 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  77 

LADY  EMILY,  (sighing  and  in  a  faint  voice.) 

And  yet  I  must  say,  that  there  is  something  fearfully  fine, 
in  all  which  that  inspired-looking  man,  Mr.  Grimshaw, 
said ;  and  Lady  Rosstrevor  assures  me  that 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (interrupting  her.) 

Inspired  humbug  !  Emily,  I  am  ashamed  of  you  !  If  this 
is  the  tone  of  mind  you  bring  to  the  great  work  of  improving 
the  condition  of  the  poor  people  committed  to  your  care ;  if 
every  self-interested  impostor  is,  in  his  turn,  to  gain  your 
attention,  the  sooner  you  return  to  England  the  better;  there, 
at  least,  you  have  less  power  to  do  harm,  if  you  can  do  less 
good.  Judgment  here  is  more  wanting  than  feeling.  [Lady 
Emily  bursts  into  tears.  Mr.  Sackville  throws  his  arm  round 
her.]  Come,  come;  you  are  quite  exhausted;  you  are 
nervous,  and  completely  beaten  down  by  all  you  have  gone 
through  to-day.  You  shall  retire  now  and  throw  yourself 
on  your  bed :  after  a  long,  refreshing  sleep,  you  will  help 
us  to  laugh  over  the  very  ludicrous  scenes  of  this  morning, 
in  which  you  have  played  a  part  rather  beyond  your  physical 
forces. 

[He  leads  her  out  of  the  room,  Lady  JuHa  attempts  to  follow,] 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 
No,  no  ;  leave  her  to  me. 

LORD  FITZROY,  (yawning  and  moving  towards  the  door.) 
Will  you  ride,  Herbert  ? 

CLARENCE  HERBERT. 
Which  way  are  you  going  ? 

LORD  FITZROY. 

I  shall  visit  my  etat  major  at  Mog-e-row,  and  reconnoitre 
the  country,  touching  the  progress  of  tithe  pigs  and  still- 
hunting. 

CLARENCE  HERBERT. 

Well,  I'll  follow  ;  or  meet  you,  on  your  way  home.  We 
shan't  dine  till  nine,  I  take  it. 


78  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

LORD  FITZROY. 

I  hope  not,  Belle  Julie :  follow  your  sister's  example. 
To  bed,  to  bed,  to  bed ;  you  are  fairly  done  up. 

[Exit.1 

CLARENCE  HERBERT,  (lingering  behind.) 

I  believe  that  it  is  good  advice  ;  you  must  be  a  little  weary 
of  this  day ;  and  may  be  g-lad  to  throw  off  your  sack  and 
system. 

LADY  JULIA,  (naively.) 

On  the  contrary,  I  have  enjoyed  the  day  particularly.  I 
took  so  much  less  interest  in  what  w^as  going  on,  than  Emily. 

CLARENCE  HERBERT,  (takes  her  hand  and  kisses  it.) 

0  Julia  !  if  I  dared  interpret 

[The  door  opens.     The  servants  enter  to  remove  the  things.    He 
drops  her  hand  in  confusion,  and  looks  at  his  watch.] 

Past  five,  by  Jove — if  your  ladyship  is  disposed  for  a 
walk,  the  evening  looks  enchanting. 

LADY  JULIA,  (confused.) 

1  should  like  it  much.  Perhaps  we  may  prevail  on 
Harry  to  accompany  us — Pll  try. 

[E-xit  Lady  Julia.] 

CLARENCE  HERBERT,  (to  himself.) 
Well,  'tis  an  ill  wind  blows  nobody  good  !  I  came  to 
this  most  wretched  spot  of  all  wretched  Ireland,  to  be  the 
most  wretched  of  all  fellows  on  the  face  of  the  earth ;  and  I 
have  become  the  happiest  of  human  beings  !  'Tis  strange 
that  the  Julia  of  Almack's,  and  the  Julia  of  the  mountains  of 
Mogherow,  should  be  two  such  distinct  women  !  This  is 
what  is  meant,  I  suppose,  by  being  creatures  of  circum- 
stances. Well,  no  matter  for  the  circumstances,  the  creature 
is  divine. 

[Exit,  slowly  ascending  the  stairs  to  his  own  room.] 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  79 


SCENE  IV. 


The  tap-room  in  the  New  Inn,  or  Rosstrevor  Arms,  (in  Sally  Nog- 
gin,) formerly  the  Cat  and  Bagpipes,  but  recently  converted,  with 
its  mistress,  the  widow  Fogarty,  to  a  new-light  destination.  It 
exhibits  an  orderly  appearance.  A  sheet  of  "  Rules  and  Regula- 
tions" is  framed  over  the  chirjiney- piece.  Over  the  door  of  an  ad- 
joining room  is  inscribed,  ""Temperance  Society  Coffee-room." 
Some  tracts  are  scattered  upon  the  tables.  The  windows  command 
the  main  street,  where  the  annual  fair  of  Sally  Noggin  presents  a 
very  motley  and  busUing  appearance,  as  contrasted  with  the  quiet 
and  rather  Flemish  interior.  Mr.  Sampson,  the  tithe-proctor,  and 
Mr.  Brady,  the  surveyor,  (two  brass-buttoned  gentry,)  are  seated 
near  the  fire-side,  busied  over  some  accounts,  which,  with  the  air 
of  Peachem  and  Lockit,  they  are  winding  up  in  a  vigilant  distrust 
of  each  other.  Enter  Mrs.  Fogarty,  a  very  comely,  domestic- 
looking  woman,  in  deep  weeds.  She  is  wiping  a  glass  tumbler  in 
an  arduous  manner.  With  downcast  eyes  and  a  mincing  gait,  she 
she  approaches  the  demi-officials  of  Sally  Noggin. 


MRS.  FOGARTY. 
I  thought  you  called,  gintlemin. 

MR.  SAMPSON,  (gallantly.) 

Why  thin,  whither  we  did  or  no,  the  likes  of  you  never 
comes  amiss,  Mrs.  Fogarty.  I'm  sorry  not  to  see  the  new 
Protestant  inn  better  attended,  ma'am,  and  this  the  fair  day. 

MRS.  FOGARTY,  (affectedly.) 

O,  sir,  this  isn't  the  pleece  they  like  to  be  coming  to.  It's 
too  quiet,  intirely,  and  reg'lar  ; — only  for  the  genteels.  But 
the  Lord  is  good  !  and  Lady  Rosstrevor,  that  took  me  out  of 
the  dark  way,  and  th'ould  Cat  and  Bagpipes,  will  not  lave 
me  a  loser.     What  d'yez  please  to  call  for,  gintlemin  1 

MR.  BRADY,  (tying  up  the  account-books.) 

What  would  you  plaze  to  drink,  Mr.  Sampson  ? — for  we 
must  handsell  the  new  Protestant  tap-room. 

8* 


80  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


MR.  SAMPSON. 

With  all  the  veins,  sir.  What  do  you  advise  us  to  take, 
Mrs.  Fogarty,  dear  ?  It's  by  your  counsel,  ma'am,  I'd  like 
to  go,  in  more  than  a  dhrop. 

MRS.  FOGARTY. 

Why  then,  I'd  advise  ye,  gintlemin,  to  take  a  dish  of  the 
Temperance  Society  coffee.  It's  strongly  recommended  by 
her  ladyship,  and  Mr.  Grimshaw, — and  has  saved  the 
sowls  of  many  a  sinner  :  not  all  as  one  as  the  raw  spurrets. 

MR.  SAMPSON. 

Arrah,  be  aisy  now,  widow  Fogarty  !  Great  a  saint  as 
you  are,  you  musn't  be  afther  going  to  the  fair  with  us,  that 
a  way. 

MRS.  FOGARTY. 

Is  it  me  a  saint,  sir  ?  O,  Mr.  Sampson,  I'm  far  from  it ; 
though  surely,  my  lady  and  Mr.  Grimshaw  have  wrought 
wondhers  in  me,  since  I  kept  th'  ould  Cat  and  Bagpipes. 

MR.  SAMPSON. 

Well,  ma'am,  the  new  light  may  do  as  they  plaze  ;  but 
them  eyes  of  yours.  Widow  Fogarty,  were  niver  given  ye, 
for  the  good  of  your  sowl :  the  Lord  pardon  them  1 

MRS.  FOGARTY,  (drawing  up.) 

Lave  off  now,  Mr.  Sampson,  if  you  plaze.  Such  dis- 
coorse  doesn't  become  you,  sir,  to  one  of  my  state  and  call- 
ing.    [Throws  up  her  ei/es,  and  sighs.] 

MR.  BRADY. 

Well,  never  heed  him  now,  widow,  honey  ;  you  know 
Mr.  Sampson's  a  wag,  and  will  have  his  joke  out.  But  in- 
stead of  recommending  us  the  timperance  coffee,.  A^-iiat  would 
you  think,  ma'am,  of  a  little  of  Father  O'Leary's  eye- 
wather  1  Kiln-dried  a  Protestant  as  I  am,  I'm  always  for 
the  papist  dhrop.  Where  the  spirit  is  concerned,  ma'am, 
there's  nothing  like  the  priest's  direction. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  81 


MRS.  FOGARTY,  (raincingly.) 


As  you  plaze,  gintlemin  ;  only  not  raw  spurrets,  if  you 
plaze. 


MR.  BRADY. 

Well,  thin,  a  couple  of  tumblers,  ma'am,  let  it  be,  with 
a  dash  of  hot  water,  and  a  squeeze  of  lemon  to  qualify  it. 

MRS.  FOGARTY. 

It  shall  be  attinded  to,   gintlemin. 

[As  Mrs.  Fogarty  is  going,  enter  Dan  O'Leary  and  Darby 
O'LouGHLiv,  two  of  the  lowest  class  of  farmers.  They  are  wrapt 
in  heavy  frieze  coats,  and  their  caubeens  are  slouched.  They  look 
round  the  neat  tap-room,  with  an  air  of  humorous  surprise  and 
affected  respect.  Mrs.  Fogarty  draws  up  and  looks  coldly  on  them. 
The  farmers  take  their  seat  at  a  box  near  the  open  window,  out  of 
which  they  lounge  on  their  elbows,  talking  and  laughing  with  the 
people  in  the  fair.     Exit  Mrs.  Fogarty.] 

DARBY  O'LOUGHLIN,  (looking  after  her,  sings.) 
"  Tho'  mass  was  my  motion,  my  dewotion  was  she." 

DAN  O'LEARY,  (taking  a  short  shillelagh,  from  under  his  trusty,  and 
laying  it  beside  hira.    He  speaks  in  a  low  voice.) 

Why,  thin,  darby,  wouldn't  you  be  afther  taking  this  for  a 
methodist  meeting-house,  'stead  of  th'ould  Cat  and  Bag- 
pipes ? 


DARBY  O'LOUGHLIN,  (laughs  ;  then  laying  down  a  club,  worthy  of 
Hercules,  beside  him.     He  answers  in  a  like  under  tone.) 

Why  thin,  by  this  stick  in  my  hand,  sir,  the  divil  a  know 
I'd  know  it,  no  more  thin  the  Castle  of  Dubling,  only  in 
regard  of  its  being  the  corner  of  Blarney  Lane.  Och  !  lave 
Widdy  Fogarty  alone,  sir.  This  isn't  the  first  turn,  and 
won't  be  the  last  she'll  have  yet.  Well,  great  a  pew-opener 
as  she  is,  she'll  be  telling  her  padreens  yet ;  though  she's 
above  being  civil  to  the  likes  of  uz,  now.  Didn't  she  look 
murthur  at  us,  sir,  for  coming  into  her  fine  parlour,  at  all  at 
all  ?  She  don't  care  a  rotten  potaty  for  the  likes  of  uz,  since 
that  raal  divil,  Paddy  Murphy,  broke  her  coffee  tay-cups  to 


MANOR  SACKVILLE. 


smithereens,  and  lighted  his  bit  of  a  doodeen  with  her  bible 
tracks,  sir  ;  more  power  to  him.  Och  !  its  Paddy  has  the 
wire  in  him,  and  is  a  fine  lump  ov  a  boy,  as  you'd  like  to 
meet  in  a  day's  walk  :  it's  himself  up  to  snuff,  and  a  pinch 
above  it,  by  Japers. 


MR.  BRADY,  (who  has  been  engaged  with  his  papers,  and  has  not 
noticed  the  new  arrivers,  hid  out  by  the  box.) 

Well,  sir,  it's  all  fair.  Short  reckonings  makes  long 
friendships,  they  say  :  and  except  that  trifle  of  a  differ  about 
tithe  pigs  and  the  keg  of  whiskey  ; — but  sure,  sir,  the  honest- 
est  reckonings  must  have  "  errors  excepted." 

MR.  SAMPSON. 

To  be  sure,  sir,  it's  true,  for  you  ; — and  so  many  little 
items  ! 

[Enter  Mrs.  Fogarty,  with  a  smart  tray,  laden  with  tumblers,  pipes, 
and  a  lighted  candle.] 

MRS.  FOGARTY. 

There,  gintlemin,  if  yez  want  any  thing  more,  there's  a 
bell  in  the  corner,  and  there's  a  purty  little  book,  sent  by 
Lady  Rosstrevor,  to  amuse  the  custhomers  over  their  glass ; 
"  The  Sinner  Saved,"  or  the  Life  of  S.  S.,  they  call  it. 


MR.  SAMPSON,  (laughing.) 

Oh !  Mrs.  Fogarty  !  Mrs.  Fogarty !  ye'll  die  with  the 
wafer  in  your  mouth  yet ;  for  sure,  ma'am  have'nt  you  given 
us  "  bell,  book,  and  candle  light,"  after  the  fashion  of  your 
ould  church  ?  Well,  ma'am  here's  to  your  purty  health ; 
and  long  may  you  prosper  in  your  new  undertaking  ! 

MR.  BRADY. 

And  a  good  husband,  and  soon,  to  3''ou,  ma'am, 

MR.  SAMPSON,  (winking.) 
That's  putting  in  a  good  word  for  himself,  Widow  Fogarty. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  83 

MRS.  FOGARTY,  (smiling  demurely.) 

The  Lord  forgive  you  your  innocent  mirth,  gintlemin. 
I'm  glad,  in  troth,  to  see  you  plazed ;  and  thank  you  for 
your  wishes  and  good  custom. 

DAN.  O'LEARY,  (as  she  passes  by  the  bo.x,  taking  offhis  hat  politely.) 

Mistress  Fogarty,  I  hope  I  see  you  in  good  heahh,  ma'am. 
Your  ould  custhomer,  Dan.  O'Leary,  ma'am,  a  gossip  of 
your  good  man's,  poor  Jemmy  Fogarty  ;  God  rest  his  sowl ! 
[Crosses  himself.]  Here's  Darby  O'Loughlin,  a  great  crony 
of  poor  Jemmy's  too. — and  myself,  stepped  in  from  the  fair, 
ma'am  just  to  dhrink  success  to  the  new  in,  and  handsell  your 
undertaking. 

MRS.  FOGARTY,  (coldly,  and  with  downcast  eyes.) 

I'm  obliged  intirely  to  yez,  gintlemin.  But  I  don't  sell 
raw  spirits.  I'm  bound  by  my  lace  and  indentures  not  to 
sell  raw  spirits,  gintlemin. 

DAN.  O'LEARY. 

Och  !  it's  just  all  the  same,  ma'am ;  in  regard  of  myself, 
being  booksworn,  till  Christmas  eve,  again  naked  spirits  of 
any  sort  or  kind,  to  Father  Phil  ;  and  Darby,  too,  ma'am. 
So,  we'll  throuble  you  for  a  pint  of  parliament,  dashed 
through  a  quart  of  Brazier's  best,  ma'am  ;  what  Mr.  Mac 
Dermot  calls  the  pathriot's  own,  ma'am. 


MRS.  FOGARTY. 

Ye  shall  be   served,  gintlemin.     Luke  attind  the  box,  if 
you  pleaze,  at  the  Dublin  window. 


[Exit  Mrs.  Fogarty,  and  presently  enters  a  boy,  who  places  a  jug  of 
strong  ale,  ('  dashed'  with  a  pint  of  strong  whiskey,)  and  tumblers. 
Dan  and  Darby  continue  to  drink,  and  talk,  and  shake  hands  with 
the  passers-by  under  the  window  ;  contributing  largely  to  the  hat 
of  a  bear-leader,  whose  "  baste"  moves  a  minuet  to  the  time  of 
Erin  go  Brach.  Mersrs,  Brady  and  Sampson  sip  their  punch,  and 
converse  in  close  coloquy  sublime.] 


84  MANOR  SACKVILLE. 


MR.  BRADY. 

And  so,  sir,  you  tell  me  ye've  never  been  up  to  the  great 
house  yet  since  the  new  English  grandees  arrived. 

MR.  SAMPSON. 

Niver,  sir  ;  nor  niver  saw  Mr.  Lumley  Sackville,  nor 
Lady  Emily,  nor  any  of  the  party,  since  they  came  into  the 
country,  barring  at  church  on  a  Sunday. 


MR.  BRADY. 

Why  thin,  what  is  Jerry  Galbraith  about,  sir  ?  He  used 
to  be  a  good  warrant,  to  do  a  good-natured  turn  for  a  friend. 
And  one  ought  to  have  a  face  ticket  on  such  a  house  as  Manor 
Sackville,  any  how ;  especially  you,  Mr.  Sampson,  who  soils 
a  plate,  betimes,  with  the  first  in  the  country  ;  for  they  couldn't 
do  without  you,  sir,  and  they  know  it  well.  There's  no  in- 
formation ever  government  gets  like  yours ;  for  the  people 
trust  you,  sir. 

]\IR.  SAMPSON. 

Oh  !  it's  true  for  you,  Mr.  Brady !  and  the  late  Mr.  Fitz- 
gerald Sackville  thought  he  could  never  make  enough  of  me  ; 
and  when  I  went  there  on  business,  oh  !  it  was  only  "  by  this, 
and  by  that,  you  don't  stir  till  you  take  your  tumbler  !"  And 
if  he  was  going  out  to  dine  himself,  it's  to  good  Mrs.  Q,uig- 
ley  I  was  handed  over,  and  a  dinner  in  the  housekeeper's 
room  fit  for  the  high  sheriff?  But  as  to  Jerry  Galbraith, 
except  to  make  the  greatest  of  game  of  him,  which  I  hear  the 
ladies  do,  and  dress  him  up,  like  a  Christmas  mummer,  it's 
in  little  respect  he's  held,  sir,  by  them. 


MR.  BRADY. 

Do  you  tell  me  that,  now  ?  He  that's  respected  by  the 
whole  country  round  ; — that's  the  Protestants. 

MR.  SAMPSON. 

Aye,  sir  !  and  more  betoken,  they  say,  that  when  Captain 
Williams,  (th'  auditor,  as  they  call  him,)  comes  over,  Jerry 
Galbraith  is  to  get  the  turn  out  intirely ;  and  some  young 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  85 

Papist  counsellor  from  Dublin  is  to  have  the  agency,  under 
the  Captain  !  Oh,  Mr.  Brady,  mark  my  words  !  It  was  a 
bad  day  for  the  country,  that  brought  the  liberal  Mr  Sack- 
ville  (as  he  is  called,)  into  the  place ! 

MR.  BRADY. 

So  they  say,  sir  ! — so  they  say.  Sir  Job  Blackacre  had  it 
from  the  Honourable  and  Reverend,  that  a  greater  Papist,  or 
a  bigger  rebel  doesn't  brathe  than  the  new  Mr.  Sackville. 
He's  the  very  revarse  of  th'  ould  gintleman,  who  wouldn't 
rest  still  in  his  grave,  if  he  knew  what  was  going  on  in  Manor 
Sackville.  What  would  he  say,  think  ye,  sir,  to  see  Father 
Phil,  and  th'  ould  Jesuit,  Mr.  Everard,  walking  cheek  by 
joul  with  my  lady  through  the  cabins,  planning  and  plotting 
th'  overthrov/  of  the  Protestant  church  ;  and  they  dining 
every  Sunday  at  Manor  Sackville,  to  the  great  injury  of  the 
constitution  of  1688. 


MR.  SAMPSON. 

Aye,  sir  !  and  as  they  tell  me,  Mr.  Emerson,  the  Protes- 
tant curate,  who  flew  in  the  bishop's  face  about  the  Kildare 
Street  schools,  is  hand  and  glove  with  Mr.  Sackville  ;  and 
aiding  and  abetting  to  have  a  school,  where  there's  to  be  no 
religion  at  all,  nor  the  Bible  not  so  much  as  looked  on  by 
the  papist  brats,  for  fear  they  woudn't  be  sent  to  school  at  all 
at  all. 

MR.  BRADY. 

He  ought  to  have  his  gown  stripped  over  his  ears,  if  there 
was  law  or  justice  to  be  had.  Och  !  but  it  was  a  black  day, 
the  day  that  Mr.  Fitzgerald  Sackville  went  into  the  church- 
yard of  Mogherow,  feet  foremost.  I'll  drink  his  memory, 
sir,  if  you  plaze ;  for  he  was  a  great  m.an,  and  a  good ;  and 
I  had  the  honour  to  belong  to  his  lodge  for  fifteen  years;  and 
it's  often  we  drank  "the  glorious  and  immortal"  on  our 
bended  knees,  in  the  prisence  of  the  rising  sun.  If  ever 
there  was  a  true  and  loyal  Protestant  gintleman,  William 
Fitzgerald  Sackville,  you  were  the  man  !  so  here's  to  your 
pious  memory  ! 

[They  drink  "in  solemn  silence."    Mr.  Sampson  rings  the  bell,  and 
orders  two  fresh  tumblers.] 


86  MANOR  SACKVILLE. 

MF.  SAMPSON. 

Well,  sir,  niver  mind  ;  just  wait  a  while.  Sorrow  long 
you'll  be  throubled  with  these  English  liberals.  The  place 
will  be  made  too  hot  to  hould  them  afore  long.  For  though 
he  has  all  as  one  as  shaken  off  th'  orange  interest,  divil  a 
much  the  green  care  for  him.  He's  not  the  sort  they  want, 
sir.  There's  no  go  in  him.  He's  all  for  pace  and  quiet ; 
and  the  pathriots  have  found  out  that  he  has  the  two  ways  in 
him.  Not  a  pinny  has  he  come  down  to  the  rint,  though  he 
has  given  them  ground  for  a  new  chapel. 

MR.  BRADY. 

That's  thrue  for  you,  sir ;  and  besides,  didn't  he  put  his 
futt  into  it  th'  other  day,  by  the  spache  at  the  great  dinner 
given  him  by  the  pathriots  at  Mogherow,  when  he  bid  the 
people  not  to  be  unraisonable,  nor  to  look  for  noonday  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning. 

MR.  SAMPSON. 

And  Mac  Dermott  and  O'Hanlon  set  their  faces  agen  him 
for  a  Whig  ;  and  will  bring  in  Sir  Job,  or  any  other  extrame 
Orange  gintleman  for  the  county,  sooner  nor  he.  Thin,  sir, 
he  has  offended  the  Quality  by  giving  a  dinner  without  dis- 
tinction of  creed  or  party  ;  though  Mrs.  Polypus,  (I  know  for 
sartain,)  sent  a  list  to  my  lady  of  who  ought,  and  who  ought 
not,  to  be  asked  together ;  and  who  was  suspected,  and  who 
had  friends  hung  in  the  rebellion  of  ninety-eight.  And  what 
does  the  hoity-toighty  lady,  but  axes  them  the  very  first ; 
and,  to  finish  the  business,  whom  did  she  open  the  ball  with, 
but  young  Mr.  Harry  Despard,  whose  father  was  hung  at 
the  bridge  of  Mogherow,  by  Sir  Job's  father  in  '98  ;  and  she 
made  th'  honourable  Captain  Herbert  dance  with  Miss  Mac- 
lane,  whose  uncle  died  in  his  way  to  America,  where  he 
went  for  his  life ;  and  is  now  living  on  her  friends  like  a 
poor  cousin,  about  the  barony. 

MR.  BRADY. 

Oh,  sir  ;  but  sure  that's  nothing  to  what's  talked  about 
the  country  now,  that  Mr.  Sackville  is  to  carry  over  a  bag 
of  petitions  against  the  tithes  ;  and  that  he  is  raally  and  truly 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  87 

going  to  bring  an  action  agin  th'  Honourable  and  Reverend 
for  unlawful  distraining. 


MR.  SAMPSON,  (changing  colour.) 

Yes,  sir,  I  did  hear  something  of  that ;  but  what  did  you 
hear,  Mr.  Brady  ? 

MR.  BRADY. 

Why,  sir,  the  people  of  the  wrong  side  say  that  you  are  a 
marked  man,  and  will  surely  be  prosecuted. 

MR.  SAMPSON,  (tosses  offhis  punch.) 
Persecuted,  you  mane,  neighbour  Brady  ;  but  never  you 
mind.  We're  too  strong  for  the  liberal  Mr.  Sackville  yet ; 
and  he'll  find  that  out,  ere  long  ;  or  my  name's  not  William 
Sampson  :  and  as  for  his  action,  I  defy  him.  [Snaps  his 
fingers  and  raises  his  voice.]  Sure,  it's  that  notorious  Rockite 
and  Whitefoot,  Shane  Sullivan,  or  Shane  na  Dhu,  as  they 
call  him,  who's  up  the  mountains,  and  swore  that  he'd  have 
the  worth  of  his  cow  in  blood,  or  money,  because,  sir,  the 
poor  garan  died  in  the  pound.  And  that,  w^ith  other  little 
things  done  to  bring  him  to  his  sinses,  fairly  dhrove  him 
mad  ;  and  it's  on  the  say  of  that  villain,  that  they'd  bring  a 
Protestant  and  loyal  man  into  a  court  of  justice  !  and  all^y 
a  stranger  in  the  country,  that  knows  nothing  of  the  ways 
of  the  place  ! 

DAN.  O'LEARY,  (muttering.) 

Do  ye  hear  that  ?  Why,  tbin,  if  the  great  Mr.  Sackville 
backs  poor  Shane  Sullivan,  he'll  have  the  prayers  of  the 
poor  with  him.  And  long  may  he  reign!  for  a  greater 
piece  of  villainy  than  that  of  Shane's  cow,  and  his  woman  in 
the  straw,  carted  out  into  the  road,  and  the  bed  sould  from 
under  her,  niver  was  done  under  the  sun  ;  [raises  his  voice,'] 
and  so  here's  to  the  health  of  Mr.. Sackville,' 


DARBY  O'LOUGHLIN. 

Wisht,  man  !  hold  your  wisht  !  How  long  have  you  ped 
Mr.  Sampson  the  tithe  you  owe  him,  yourself,  that  you'd  go 
to  offind  him,  or  the  likes  of  him  ?  and  the  dhrop  getting 
into  vour  head^  Dam  O'Leary  ! 

9 


88  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

DAN.  O'LEARY,  (still  raising  his  voice,  and  tossing  off  another  glass.) 

If  I  were  to  go  to  jail  this  blessed  night  for  it,  I  will  say 
my  say  ;  and  that  is  just  this,— that  the  pounding  of  Shane's 
cow  was  a  mighty  great  villainy ;  and  if  Mr.  Sackville  sees 
justice  done  him,  there  isn't  a  boy  in  the  barony  who  wouldn't 
go  to  the  world's  ind  barefoot  for  him, — aye,  troth,  and  fur- 
ther ! 

MR.  BRADY,  (perceiving  the  men  in  the  box,  and  lowering  his  voice.) 

Now  I  remimber  me,  a  long  time  afore  ould  Sackville 
died,  I  oncet  heard  the  Honourable  and  Reverend's  brother 
tell  young  Captain  Blackacre,  whin  they  were  up  the  moun- 
tains after  the  grouse,  and  I  was  looking  to  th'  illicit  stills, 
that  this  very  Mr.  Lumley  Sackville  was  to  have  gone  into 
parliament  on  the  Catholic  interest ;  only  some  papist  lord, 
as  owned  the  borough,  died,  and  so  it  went  the  right  way. 

DAN.  O'LEARY,  (listening  and  filling  his  glass.) 

Thin  here's  better  luck  to  him  another  time  !  for  there's 
nothing  he  does,  but  what's  great  and  grand. 

MR.  BRADY. 

Oh,  sir  !  there's  them  about  us  would  pison  the  bread  we 
ate !  Sure  I  intercepted  an  anonymous  letter  at  the  post- 
office,  to  Lady  Emily,  telling  the  story  of  Shane  Sullivan's 
wife  dying  on  the  road.  Och  !  I  knew  the  hand.  It  was 
the  very  same  that  sent  me  notice  to  quit,  and  give  up  the 
premises  of  Ballycondra,  on  pain  of  death,  and  of  a  sod  in 
the  thatch. 

MR.  SAMPSON. 

Well,  sir ;  the  woman  would  have  died,  any  how,  for  she 
was  given  over  ;  and  the  cow  was  pounded  according  to  law  ; 
so  I  defy  the  liberal  Mr.  Sackville,  if  that's  what  he  calls 
himself.  But  set  a  case  it  wasn't ;  what  then,  sir  ?  Where 
will  twelve  raally  loyal  men  be  found  in  a  jury-box  to  say 
that  the  Honourable  and  Riverend  did  wrong  ?  Sure  the 
Honourable's  cousin  and  agent.  Sub-sheriff  Jones,  won't  let 
a  bad  man  on  the  pannel. 

MR.  BRADY.' 
True  for  you,  Mr.  Sampson.     It  won't  be  the  first  time 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  89, 

Sub-sheriff  Jones  has  stood  your  friend  ;  nor  it  won't  be  the 
last,  plaze  God.     Here's  to  his  good  health ! 


DAN  CLEAR Y,  (raising  his  voice.) 

If  there  had  been  justice  in  Ireland,  that  nigger  Jones 
would  have  been  hanged  long  ago ;  for  a  greater  land-shark 
never  braithed  the  breath  of  life  ;  and  it's  to  him  the  murder 
of  my  uncle,  in  the  skrimmage  about  the  procession,  is  due 
intirely ;  and  his  blood  is  on  him  and  his  to  this  day.  So 
here's  intire  confusion  to  him  ! 

DARBY  O'LOUGHLIN,  (getting  warm  and  stout.) 

And  didn't  he  turn  my  aunt's  husband's  sister,  and  all  her 
little  babies,  on  the  Ligh  road,  selling  the  very  thatch  from 
over  her  head,  and  that  ^gin  all  law  and  justice  ? 

DAN  0'i.p;ARY. 
And  didn't  he  force  my  own  brofr.PT  to  quit  the  country, 
and  go  for  a  soldier,  in  regard  of  his  threatening  to  transport 
him,  for  a  thrifle  not  worth  spaking  of? 

DARBY  O'LOUGHLIN. 

And  didn't  he  make  myself  go  down  on  my  two  bare  knees, 
and  dhrink  confusion  to  the  Pope — Jasus  pardon  me  ! — and 
he  standing  over  me  all  the  while  with  his  bagonet,  and 
prodding  me,  as  if  I'd  been  a  brute  baste  ? 

DAN  O'LEARY,  (aloud  and  standing  up.) 

Why,  thin,  here's  long  life  and  glory  to  the  new  Mr. 
Sackville  ;  and  the  divil  fly  away  with  all  land-sharks,  tithe- 
proctors,  and  common  informers,  that  takes  the  innocent  boys 
at  an  amplush  !     Whooh  ! — Sackville  for  ever  ! 

DARBY  O'LOUGHLIN. 

Here's  Misther  Sackville's  good  health !  and  the  horse 
that  throwed  King  William  !  Hurrah  !  and  the  O'Loughlins 
for  ever  ! 

[Mr.  Sampson  and  Mr.  Brady,  overhearing  the  two  men  in  the  box, 
draw  back  their  chairs,  and  take  a  view  of  them;  and  exhibit  much 
surprise  and  stifled  rage.] 


^  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


MR.  SAMPSON. 

It's  well  we're  not  talking  traison,  boys  ;  for  we  little  knew 
we  had  eves-droppers  on  the  scout ;  but  if  ye  are  drunk,  be- 
have yourselves,  any  how.  Have  a  care,  now  ;  mind  what 
you  are  about.  It  would  be  better  far  for  you  to  keep  a  civil 
tongue  in  your  head,  stout  as  you  are,  because  your  faction's 
in  the  fair.  May  be  the  Honourable  and  Riverend  may  be 
axing  you,  Dan  O'Leary,  after  his  own  afore  long ;  and  it's 
myself  may  be  called  on  to  give  you  a  helping  hand  into  the 
stone  jug  ;  where  I  would  inthroduce  you,  with  all  the  plea- 
sure in  life,  for  your  uncommon  insolence  this  day.  Mind 
what  I  say — my  mark  is  on  ye ! 


DAN  O'LEARY. 

Thin,  it's  yourself  that  need  no^  mention  the  stone  jug  just 
now ;  for  if  Mr.  Sackville — ^-^'^ry  be  to  his  honour  ! — takes 
up  Shane  Sullivan's  cow  p-^'-t  wife,  I  know  who'll  be  rubbing 
his  nose  agen  cold  iro'^^-  afore  long  ; — and  the  divil's  cure  to 
them  !  amen ! 

DARBY  O'LOUGHLIN. 

Och,  Musha,  times  are  changed  ;  and  it  isn't  all  as  one,  as 
when  ye  shot  the  priest's  mare  on  the  twelfth  of  July  :  for 
Ae's  in  the  place  now  will  back  us  out ;  and  the  Grangers 
won't  have  things  their  own  way,  like  the  fox  in  the  farm- 
yard, as  in  th'  ould  times,  gintlemin. 

DAN  O'LEARY. 

Divil  an  orangeman  will  dare  show  his  ugly  face  in  the 
barony  afore  long ;  and  so  here's  confusion  to  the  colour,  by 
day  and  by  night. 

MR.  BRADY,  (winks  to  Sampson  to  be  quiet.) 

Aisy  now,  boj^s,  aisy  ;  wait  awhile,  and  you'll  see  whether 
this  great  philozover  from  England  will  be  able  to  show  his 
own  face  in  the  grand-jury  room,  or  at  the  race-course ;  and 
whether  he'll  stand  by  you,  Dan  O'Leary,  in  regard  of  your 
run  in  the  mountains  last  summer  ;  and  the  barrel  of  poteen 
you  flung  into  the  bog,  O'Loughlin. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  91 


DAN  O'LEARY. 

Why  then,  Mr.  Brady,  if  harm  comes  to  me,  or  mine,  for 
that  same,  it  won't  be  the  first  honest  boy  you've  sworn  out 
of  his  liberty,  and  life  too,  you  informing  villain,  you  I 

DARBY  C'LOUGHLIN. 

^  If  Mr.  Sackville  stands  by  uz,  the  blue  smoke  will  be  afther 
rising  agin  in  the  bogs,  in  spite  of  all  the  perjured  excisemen 
in  Ireland;  and,  moreover,  here's  confusion  to  the  Polis^ 
who  oh ! 

[Driaks.} 

DAN  O'LEARY. 

Amen,  whooh  ! — \_Drinks.] 

MR.  SAMPSON,  (fumbling  in  his  breast.) 

What  is  it  ye'd  be  at  now?  You  had  better  be  quiet,  and 
don't  go  on  with  your  divilments  here  ;  for  the  first  man  that 
raises  hand  or  voice  goes  off  to  the  police-station,  were  it  Mr. 
Sackville  himself;  so  now  you're  purchasers  with  notice. 

[Sampson  and  Brady  edge  towards  the  door;  but  Dan  and  Darby 
.  guard  the  pass,  and  brandish  their  shillelaghs.    Enters  Mrs.  Fo- 
garty.] 

MRS.  FOGARTY,  (in  a  whining  tone.) 

Oh,  gintlemin  dear,  quit  now,  and  don't  be  making  a 
ruction  in  my  house  !  Remember,  yez  are  not  in  a  common 
Shebmn,  gintlemin,  but  the  Rosstrevor  Arms,  but  a  genteel 
pleece  ;  so  dhrink  you  dhrop  in  pace  and  quiet,  like  sinners 
and  Christhians. — Mr.  Sampson,  I  axe  your  pardon,  sir; 
but  never  mind  Dan  O'Leary,  sir,  now.  You  see  he  is 
hearty ;  and  when  the  dhrop's  in  him,  he  has  neither  sinse 
or  raison.     Aisy  now,  Dan,  dear,  aisy. 

[Gets  between  them,  and  endeavouring  to  take  Dan's  shillelagh, 
which  he  brandishes  in  the  air,  while  he  keeps  off  Mrs.  Fogarty 
with  his  left  arm.] 

MR.  SAMPSON,  (behind  Mrs.  Fogarty.) 

Let  him  alone — let  him  do  his  worst,  Mrs.  Fogarty,  It 
isn't  the  likes  of  them  that  I  regard.     They  know  very  well 

9* 


92  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

that  I'll  have  the  hanging  of  them  some  of  these  days  :  and 
if  I  was  to  thrash  them  bkck  and  blue,  the  rebelly  Papists, 
it's  no  more  than  they  merit. 

DARBY  O'LOUGHLIN,  (struggling  with  Mrs.  Fogarty.] 

Never  mind,  ma'am ;  aisy  now,  Mrs.  Fogarty.  Divil  a 
harm  I'll  harm  your  house,  if  it  was  made  of  glass.  But, 
if  it  wasn't  that  you're  a  civil,  dacent  woman,  by  this  and  by 
that,  I'd  have  the  pleasure,  for  once  in  my  life,  of  bating  an 
exciseman  throughout,  in  one  day  ;  and  it's  not  from  out  of 
this  room  he  should  go  in  a;whole  skin,  only  in  rispect  of 
you,  Mrs.  Fogarty. 

DAN  O'LEARY,  (with  a  flourish  of  his  shillelagh.) 

Whooh  I  It's  myself  would  like  to  see  the  face  of  an 
Orangeman  on  this  blissed  floor,  to  say  nothing  of  the  Polis. 
[Calls  from  the  loindoiv.]  Hurrah  !  for  Mogherow,  and  the 
boys  up  the  mountain  ! — 

VOICES  (from  without  the  window.) 
Hurrah  ! 

[Several  men  with  orange  badges  enter  from  the  inner  apartment.] 

DAN  CLEAR Y,  (from  the  window.) 

-    Are  ye  there,  boys  ?     O'Leary  abo  ! 

[The  mob  near  the  window,  responding  to  this  cry,  rush  into  the 
house.  The  Catholics  and  Orangemen  separate  into  two  hostile 
groups.     Brady  produces  a  bayonet,  and  Sampson  draws  a  pistol.] 

MR.  SAMPSON. 

Pace  there, — pace  in  the  king's  name,  I  charge  you.  I'll 
be  book-sworn  but  this  is  a  consarted  meeting  of  ribbon-men, 
and  no  Fair  riot ;  and  you,  Dan  O'Leary,  are  at  the  bottom 
of  it;  and  you,  Darby  O'Loughlin,  are  another.  You  have 
come  into  this  place  to  circumvent  us. 

DAN  O'LEARY. 

De  ye  hear  that,  boys  ?  Och,  murther  f  it's  our  lives 
hi'd  swear  away  afore  the  judge,  as  soon  as  ate  a  potaty. 

[Mrs.  Fogarty  runs  off,  clapping  her  hands,  and  crying,  "  mille, 

murther !"] 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  93 


MR.  SAMPSON. 


Aye,  and  sooner ;  and  right  well  ye  desarve  it.  But  see 
here  now,  the  first  of  yez  that  stirs  hand  or  foot,  I'll  blow 
his  brains  out,  to  tache  yez  to  behave  like  dacent  people,  for 
the  rest  of  your  lives. 

DAN  O'LEARY,  (to  his  friends.) 

Blood  alive,  boys,  will  ye  stand  to  be  shot  like  wood- 
cocks ?  To  the  divil  with  his  pistol  !  It  can  go  oft'  but 
once  ;  so,  Jlaugh  na  hallach  ! — clear  the  way. — Here  goes, 
by  Japers  ! 

[Knocks  Mr.  Sampson's  pistol  out  of  his  hand:  it  goes  off.  A 
general  uproar  and  engagement  ensues ;  the  police  rush  in  from 
the  street.] 

SERJEANT  DONOVAN,  (throwing  his  party  between  the  belligerents.) 

Clear  the  house — quit  now,  directly,  and  go  home  every 
man  of  yez. — Mr.  Sampson  !  Mr.  Brady  !  I  hope  no  one 
has  assaulted  you,  gintlemen.  Shew  me  the  villians,  sir  ! 
point  them  out ! 

MR.  SAMPSON. 

Och,  Serjeant  Donovan,  you're  come  in  good  time,  sir. 
That  rebelly  thief  there,  (that's  a  common  bog-skulker,  sir,) 
talks  of  Mr.  Sackville  being  come  over  to  back  the  Papists 
and  the  Whitefeet.  There's  bad  work  going  on,  sarjeant — 
a  regular  conspiracy — a  rebellion,  sir,  and  revolution  ;— '9S 
to  the  life,  sir  ! 

MR.  BRADY. 

If  we  hadn't  overheard  their  discourse,  every  Protestant 
of  us  all  might  have  found  ourselves  murthered  in  our  beds, 
when  we  woke  to-morrow  morning.  The  tow^n  of  Sally 
Noggin  was  to  be  fired  and  pillaged,  and  the  church  robbed 
and  ransacked ;  and  every  stand  of  arms  taken  from  the 
station. 

SERJEANT  DONOVAN,  (to  his  men.) 

Surround  these  fellows  !  I'll  take  them  to  the  station,  sir, 
for  to-night ;  and  to-morrow  you  can  have  them  up  to  Sir  Job. 


94  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


jMR.  BKADY. 

Away  with  them,  by  all  manes,  th'  infarnal  rebels  ! — Och, 
there's  plenty  enough  to  send  them,  every  mother's  son  of 
them,  to  Botany  Bay,  if  not  to  the  gallows  ;  and  a  good 
riddance  it  will  be. 

[The  police  take  Dan  and  Darby  prisoners,  who  make  no  resistance, 
and  clear  the  house.  The  people  rush  confusedly  into  the  street. 
The  police  then  march  their  prisoners  off,  followed  by  Brady, 
Sampson,  and  the  orange  party,  who  take  off  their  badges.  Mrs. 
Fogarty  and  Luke  close  the  doors  in  terror  and  dismay.] 


MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


SCENE    V. 


[Scene  changes  to  the  outside  of  the  Rosstrevor  Arms,  a  wide  strag- 
gUng  street,  filled  with  a  multitude  of  country  people,  who  are 
attending  the  fair;  beyond  the  extremity  of  the  scattered  mud 
cabins  of  Sally  Noggin,  the  country  is  seen  wild  and  mountainous. 
A  rush  from  the  house,  followed  by  the  police,  with  their  pris- 
oners, &c.  &c.  Dan,  after  walking  forward  a  few  paces  tranquilly, 
throws  his  hat  in  the  face  of  the  policeman  on  his  right,  his  pipe  m 
that  of  him  on  the  left,  and  runs  off  The  mob  rescue  Darby,  and 
a  general  conflict  commsnces.  The  cries  of  "  O^Leary  for  ever !  " 
— ^'O'Loughlin  for  ever!" — "Hurrah  for  the  Dorans!'^ — "Down 
with  the  Bradys!" — "Here  goes  for  sport!"  &c.  &c. — show  what 
various  passions  are  engaged  in  the  conflict.  As  the  fight  spreads, 
the  confusion  becomes  more  general.  Tents  are  torn  up,  and  their 
poles  applied  to  the  heads  of  their  owners.  Pedlars  and  packmen^ 
bear-leaders  and  showmen,  are  overturned.  The  piper's  instru- 
ment is  broken  to  smithereens.  The  blind  fiddler  is  rolled  in  the 
mud — Pots,  kettles,  tables,  chairs,  jugs,  and  glasses,  fly  in  all 
directions.  The  various  hostile  factions  congregated  in  the  towu 
have  separate  sets-to,  "  as  fancy,  or  feeling  dictate ;"  till  Serjeant 
Donovan  and  the  police,  by  their  interference,  draw  the  general 
hostility  on  themselves.  Dan  and  Darby,  having  rallied  their  fac- 
tions, try  to  seize  Brady  and  Sampson,  who  *show  fight.'  The 
police  concentrate  to  protect  their  arms.  Several  are  wounded 
on  both  sides  ;  the  police  at  length  retreat  from  the  town,  pursued 
by  the  country  people.  A  detachment  of  military,  headed  by  Lord 
Fitzroy,  are  seen  galloping  down  the  hill.  The  country  people 
draw  up  and  receive  them  with  stones  and  other  missiles.  Lord 
Fitzroy  advances  to  address  the  mob,  when  a  shot  is  fired  from  the 
crowd,  which  passes  through  his  raised  left  hand.  The  assailant  is 
cut  down  by  a  soldier — a  drove  of  horned  cattle  are  forced  through 
the  military  ranks,  when  confusion  becomes  worse  confounded. 
Many  are  laid  prostrate  of  both  parties.  In  the  mean  time,  the 
thatch  of  the  Rosstrevor  Arms  is  set  on  fire.  Women  run  about 
in  fright  and  disorder ;  or  take  part  in  the  fight,  flinging  stones,  &c. 
The  military  charge;  the  parties  retreat,  scatter,  and  disperse:  a 
few  prisoners  are  taken.  Father  Everard  and  Father  Phil  now 
appear  in  the  crowd,  and  use  strenuous  efibrts  to  pacify  the  rioters ; 
the  former  by  entreaties,  the  latter  by  a  vigorous  application  of  a 
long  heavy  horsewhip.  The  shades  of  evening  fall  gradually  upon 
the  battle-scene,  which  is  strewn  with  the  broken  relics  of  the  fair 
and  fight.  Peace  is  at  length  restored  ;  the  troops  and  police 
march  off"  their  prisoners.  The  thatch  of  the  Rosstrevor  Arms 
being  burnt,  the  fire,  having  nothing  better  to  do  goes  out.  Mr. 
Brady  awakens  from  something  between  a  sleep  and  an  apoplexy, 


dS  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

into  which  he  had  been  plunged  by  a  sharp  blow  of  Dan's  shille- 
lagh, and  picks  himself  out  of  the  gutter  and  walks  home.  Mr. 
Sampson  emerges  from  the  stye  of  Mrs.  Fogarty's  pig,  (who  had 
hospitably  received  him,  on  his  retreat  before  superior  numbers,) 
and  likewise  effects  his  escape.  Mrs.  Fogarty  herself  seeks  pro- 
tection in  the  housekeeper's  room  at  Rosstrevor  Park  ;  and  lastly, 
Mr.  Galbraith,  who  had  witnessed  the  row  from  the  garret  window 
of  Maryville,  hastens  to  make  his  report  of  the  transaction  to  the 
Honourable  and  Reverend,  who,  in  his  turn,  furnishes  a  flaming 
article  to  the  Evening  Mail,  headed,  •'  The  slaughter  of  Sally 
Noggin  ! !  i  "] 


MANOR  SACKVILLE.  9? 


SCENE  YI. 


[The  "  shop"  of  Mogherovv,  answering  in  importance  to  the  "bottega" 
of  an  Italian  country  town,  or  the  barber's  shop  of  a  Spanish  one. 
Mr.  Bralaghan,  a  sullen,  sickly  man,  sits  nitched  behind  the 
counter  in  a  sort  of  stall ;  his  arms  crossed,  and  his  air  idle  and 
lack-a-daisical.  Mrs.  Bralaghan,  a  comely,  "clever"  lady  of 
the  "  flaughoola"  order,  leans  over  the  counter,  with  her  arms 
folded  in  her  white  apron  ;  her  countenance  expressive  of  a  deep 
and  listening  attention.  Mr.  M'Dermot,  patriot  to  Mr.  Brazier's 
brewery,  and  Mr.  O'Hanlan,  patriot  to  Mr.  Dickon's  distillery, 
(gentlemen  who  amuse  their  leisure  hours  in  keeping  the  accounts, 
and  the  political  reputations,  of  their  respective  employers,)  are 
seated  on  the  cross  counters,  with  their  legs  dangling  beneath. 
On  the  shop  stool,  in  the  centre,  sits  Mr.  Phineas  Finnigav, 
"agitator  and  pacificator  itinerary,"  from  Dublin, — one  ready  to 
make  or  to  break  the  peace,  as  the  occasion  may  require.  He  is 
reading,  for  the  public  benefit,  a  broad  sheet,  entitled,  "Grand 
Letter  from  London."  A  bright  stream  of  sunshine  pours  in, 
through  the  door  of  the  shop,  gilding  the  forms  of  the  various 
articles  which  constitute  the  treasures  of  this  "  Physitecknicon" 
of  Mogherovv, — rolls  of  ribbons  and  tobacco,  muslins  and  mill- 
stones, broad-cloth  and  hardware,  tea,  coffee,  and  spices,  cheese, 
"  mouse-traps,  and  all  other  sweet-m(  ats,"  pins,  needles,  tape, 
sugar-plums,  spades,  shovels,  pitchforks,  books,  ballads,  patent 
medicines,  spirits,  porter,  and  stamps.  Mr.  Phineas  has  just 
arrived  at  the  marrow  of  his  communication,  addressed  to  the 
"eight  tnillions  of  Irish  slaves,"  when  the  veiling  of  the  sunshine 
announces  the  interposition  of  some  opaque  body  at  the  shop  door. 
Mr.  Phineas  thrusts  his  paper  into  his  bosom,  descends  from  his 
rostrum,  and  retreats  into  the  little  parlour  behind.  Enter  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Everard,  the  parish  priest  of  Mogherovv,  a  venerable 
personage,  of  strikingly  intellectual  countenance,  tall,  thin,  a  little 
bent  in  the  shoulders,  partly  by  the  early  habits  of  a  foreign  con- 
ventual life,  and  partly  by  the  advance  of  years.  Mr.  Bralaghan 
stands  up  respectfully.  Mrs.  B.  keeps  her  position,  and  looks 
annoyed  at  the  interruption.] 


FATHER  EVERARD. 

Good  evening^ — has  my  little  venture  of  Macabaii  arrived 
yet  from  Dublin,  Mrs.  Bralaghan  ? 


MRS.  BRALAGHAN. 
Why  thin,  I'm  sorry  to    say  it  has  not,  your  Riverince  ; 


9b  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

and  I  expecting  it  every  day  this  week,  per  coach — or  any 
how,  by  the  fly. 

FATHER  EVERARD. 

I  am  sorry  to  observe,  that  little  commissions  have  not 
lately  been  executed  at  your  shop,  with  the  same  punctuality, 
they  used  to  be,  Mrs.  Bralaghan. 

MRS.  BRALAGHAN,  (pertly.) 

Why  thin,  sir,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why ;  for  God,  he 
knows  we  are  in  it,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  toiling,  broil- 
ing, and  earning  our  bit  and  sup,  more  like  galley-slaves 
than  Christians. 

FATHER  EVERARD.  (shakes  his  head.) 

The  season  is  fairly  past,  for  sowing  the  flow^er  seeds  you 
promised  three  months  ago  to  procure  for  me,  from  the  nur- 
seryman's, Mrs.  Bralaghan  ! 


MR.  BRALAGHAN,  (comes  from  behind  the  counter  and  pushes  for- 
ward a  chair.) 

Won't  your  Riverince  be  plazed  to  rest  awhile,  sir.  It's 
a  good  step  yet  to  your  own  house.  You  were  taking  your 
evening's  w^alk,  I'll  ingage,  Dr.  Everard. 


DR.  EVERARD,  (sitting  down  and  leaning  his  head  on  his  gold-headed 

cane.) 

I  am  a  little  weary ;  I  have  been  up  the  mountain,  to  see 
that  poor  dying  creature,  Pat  Kelly,  who  was  hit  with  a 
stone,  at  the  disgraceful  business  at  Sally  Noggin  the  other 
day. 

MR.  O'HANLAN,  (coming  forward.) 

Why  then,  begging  your  pardon,  Dr.  Everard,  I  thought 
it  great  fun.  Good  evening  to  your  Riverince  !  I  saw  the 
ind  of  the  scrimmage,  all  lighting  through  other  for  the  bare 
life.  The  tint-keepers  and  their  Avives,  making  off  with  the 
crockery,  the  bacon  and  pullets  flying  in  every  direction,  the 
thacJceens  pow^ring  like  hail,  and  every  where  the  sassenach 
bate  to  chaff*. 


MANOR   SACKVILLE.  QQ 


DR.  EVERARD. 

What  do  you  mean  by  the  Sassenagh  ?  that's  a  new  jar- 
gon !  In  all  that  affair — the  result  of  drunkenness,  brutality, 
and  party  spirit — Irish  blood,  Irish  temperament,  and  Irish 
names  alone  were  concerned  ;  for  the  few  military  present, 
were  peace-making,  moderate,  and  patient,  beyond  example. 
Talk  of  Sassenagh  indeed  ! — talk  of  your  own  domestic 
vices  !  your  addiction  to  whiskey,  and  its  frightful  violence  ! 
Talk  of  the  mischievous  agitation  of  all  your  parties  and 
sects,  all  goading  the  unfortunate  people  for  the  worst  of  pur- 
poses, though  by  the  most  opposite  means. 

MR.  FINNIGAN,  (comes  forward.) 

Oh !  Dr.  Everard,  there's  never  smoke  without  fire  ;  and 
th'  agitaytors  would  do  little,  if  the  people  weren't  ready  to 
be  agitayted.  The  people's  minds,  sir,  are  disturbed, — and 
with  good  raison.  There's  but  one  cure  for  all  their  griev- 
ances ;  and  till  that  comes,  th'  emerald  gem  will  often  have 
its  fine  brightness  sullied,  and  its  rays  dimmed, 

DR.  EVERARD. 

Don^t  talk  to  me  of  gems,  and  rays,  and  brightness.  What 
had  the  gathering  at  Sally  Noggin  to  do  with  such  trash  ? 
It  was  all  faction  and  drunkenness  on  both  sides,  and  a  dis- 
grace to  the  country. 

MRS.  BRALAGHAN,  (laughing.) 

I  hear  tell,  that  there  was  the  greatest  of  fun  going  on,  for 
all  that,  at  that  turn-coat,  Widdy  Fogarty's,  sorrow  mend 
her,  for  better  luck  she  doesn't  desarve  I 


DR.  EVERARD. 

Fun,  do  you  call  it,  Mrs.  Bralaghan  ?  children  left  father- 
less, mothers  sonless,  every  feeling  of  humanity  violated, 
every  duty  to  heaven  scorned  !  [with  a  deep  sigh]  hopeless, 
hapless  country ! 

MiR.  M'DERMOT,  (comes  forward.) 

Not  so  hopeless.  Father  Everard;  there  are  still  those 
10 


100  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

Glimpses  of  glory  ne'er  forgot. 
That  fall  like  gleams  on  a  sunset  satf. 
What  once  hath  been,  but  now  is  n  ot, 

but  which  may  come  round  once  more  yet,  sir,  for  all  that- 
and  wilL 


DR.  EVERARD,  (shading  his  eyes  from  the  sun,  and  looking  round.) 

Why,  gentlemen  !  You  start  forth  from  Mrs.  Bralaghan^s 
back  parlour,  like  the  warrior's  of  Roderick  Dhu  from  the 
heath  !  Mrs.  Bralaghan,  this  parlour  of  yours  will  become 
the  Tims's  of  Mogherow. 


MR.  M^DERMOT. 

The  corn  exchange,  rather,  sir,  I  should  think*     We*ve 
no  Swadlera  here.. 


DR.  EVERARD. 

Oh  I  Mr.  M'Dermot,  I  have  miss'd  you  at  mass  so  many 
Sundays,  that  the  assurance  might  be  wanting.  In  truth,  I 
feared  you  had  been  knocked  down  by  the  prevailing  epi- 
demic. 

MR.  M'DERMOT. 
Thank  your  Riverince,  I  never  was  better :  only  I  step 
up  to  town  generally,  from  Saturday  till   Tuesday,  to  see 
what  is  going  on,  in  the  political  world. 

DR.  EVERARD. 

Humph  I  Then,  you  no  longer  '*  give"  to  the  brewery, 
"  what  was  meant  for  mankind."  But  how  can  vour  em- 
ployer spare  you  from  his  establishment  I 

MR.  M'DERMOT. 

Mr.  Brazier  knows  very  well,  that  private  business  must 
give  way  to  public  interests.     Oh,  sir,  he's  a  raal  pathriot. 

MR.  O'HANLON,  (emphatically.) 

And  so  is  Mr.  Dickson.  Our  distillery  yields  to  no  man 
in  pathriotism. 


MANOR  SACKVILLE.    "  101 

DR,  EVERARD. 
So  then,  it  is  public  interest,  that  carries  you  so  often  to 
Dublin  ? 

MR.  M'DERMOT,  (in  an  oratorical  manner.) 

Yes,  sir,  while  the  voice  of  an  Irishman  may  yet  brathe 
forth  its  complaints,  and  a  muzzle  is  not  placed  upon  the 
great  organs  of  public  opinion,  I  go  to  raise  mine  in  behalf 
of  the  land  of  my  love  and  my  purtection. 

DR.  EVERARD,  (smiling.) 

Happy  country,  to  be  so  protected  !  And  what  public 
meeting  has  had  the  advantage  of  your  eloquence  and  tal- 
ents ? 

MR.  M'DERMOT. 

All,  sir,  in  turn — I  hurried  up  to  town  last,  however,  to 
join  those  great  and  glorious  bands,  the  successors  of  the 
Volunteers  of  '82,  who  again  rally  upon  the  spot  where  th' 
immortal  association  triumphed  ;  and  have  the  amazing 
moral  courage  to  take  that  heroic  and  imposing  name. 

DR.  EVERARD. 

The  amazing  impudence,  you  mean.  It  is  a  sacrilege,  a 
political  sacrilege,  to  usurp  such  honored  appellations,  and 
for  such  purposes  too  ! 

MR.  M'DERMOT,  (oratorically.) 

Allow  me,  Father  Everard,  to  say,  that  the  great  Irish 
national  guard  of  the  present  day.  .  . . 

DR.  EVERARD. 

Pooh  !  pooh !  man.  The  little  national  blackguards  of 
Mogherow  there,  who  are  rolling  in  the  mud  with  the  pigs, 
would  laugh  at  such  trash  as  this  !  It  would  be  well  in  you, 
sir,  to  be  sparing  of  such  comparisons  and  allusions.  Are 
you  not  ashamed,  for  instance,  to  place  your  recent  meetings 
at  the  Brian  Borru,   over  the  way,  in  the  same  line  with 


103  "  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

that  landmark  of  Irish  pride  and  virtue,  the  Catholic  Asso- 
ciations, as  I  see  you  have  done,  in  your  own  report  of  your 
last  speech  ?  Gracious  heaven  !  it  makes  one's  gall  rise,  to 
hear  that  glorious  assembly,  (embodied  for  the  best  and 
wisest  purposes,  with  motives  so  clearly  defined,  so  deeply 
felt,  and  so  wisely  and  so  perseveringly  acted  upon,  till  it 
wrung  its  triumph  from  its  oldest  and  bitterest  enemies)  thus 
mingled  up  with  every  gathering  of  the  idle  and  the  ignor- 
ant, the  meddling  and  the  mischievous.  For  my  part,  I 
never  mention  the  term  Catholic  Association,  without'feeling 
inclined  to  pay  it  bodily  homage.  [Touches  his  hat.]  If  to 
the  Volunteers  of  '82,  we  own  national  independence  and  a 
free  trade,  to  the  Association  we  are  indebted  for  our  reli- 
gious freedom,  and  a  reformed  parliament  ;  with  all  the 
promised  blessings  which  must  eventually  come  along  with 
it,  even  in  spite  of  the  exertions  now  making  to  avert  them. 
The  Catholic  Association,  sir,  struggled  openly  with  its  open 
enemies, — the  enemies  alike  of  every  civil,  every  religious 
right ;  and  it  commanded  the  sympathies  of  all  mankind. 
It  did  not  enter  into  a  base  and  unnatural  alliance  with  its 
ancient  oppressors,  to  make  an  ungrateful  war  on  its  oldest 
and  longest-tried  friends,  till  it  had  left  itself  without  the 
countenance  of  one  generous,  one  enlightened  supporter. 

MR.  M'DERMOT,   (sneeringly.) 

Oh,  Father  Everard,  the  present  government,  I  see,  have  a 
staunch  friend  and  advocate  in  your  Riverince. 

DR.  EVERARD. 

And  so  they  have,  sir,  as  far  at  least  as  Ireland  is  concern- 
ed ;  and  so  they  shall  have,  until  I  find  others  to  take  their 
place,  more  able  and  more  willing  to  serve  the  country,  than 
either  of  the  parties  who  are  striving  to  displace  them.  I 
admit,  they  have  not  regenerated  Ireland,  by  a  comprehen- 
sive Act  of  Parliament  ;  they  have  not,  by  the  stroke  of  a 
magician's  wand,  undone  the  work  of  centuries  of  misgovern- 
ment ;  nor  anticipated  the  course  of  nature,  to  reap  an  har- 
vest of  moral  and  physical  regeneration,  before  the  ground 
can  be  prepared,  or  the  seed  sown.  I  admit,  sir,  that,  sur- 
rounded with  difficulties,  encompassed  by  enemies,  encum- 
bered alike  with  the  ruins  of  the  system  they  have  them- 
selves overthrown,  and  by  the  raw,  very  raw  materials  of  the 


MANOR  SACKVILLE.  103 

system  which  is  to  follow  it,  they  have  not  yet  done  for  Ire- 
land, all  they  might  have  effected.  They  have,  I  allow, 
kept  in  power  and  office  too  many  of  their  worst  enemies, — 
the  worst  enemies  of  Ireland  ;  while  they  have  neglected  the 
friends  of  both.  But  if  the  liberal  Protestants,  have  cause  to 
complain,  it  was  not  for  us.  Catholics  and  Irishmen,  to  be 
the  first  to  detract  from  their  merits,  to  revile  their  feelings, 
to  distract  their  counsels,  and  to  calumniate  their  intentions. 
"  If  guilty  to  others,  they  were  still  but  too  faithful "  to  us. 
Oh,  Mr.  M'Dermot,  you  have  been  playing  an  ungrateful,  as 
well  as  a  foolish  game  ! 

MR,  M^DERMOT. 

Why,  for  the  matter  of  that  your  Riverince  the  pathriots 
have  but  followed  the  same  trusty  leaders,  any  how,  that 
showed  them  the  v/ay  to  the  victories  you  spoke  of  just  now; 
and  sure,  sir,  if  ould  Ireland  is  still  denied  justice,  it  makes 
little  differ,  whether  the  denial  comes  from  friends  or  foes  ; 
— if  friends  these  false-hearted,  false-mouthed,  gagging  min- 
istry are  to  be  called. 

DR.  EVERARD. 

I  do  not  see,  Mr.  M'Dermot,  how  justice  is  denied,  or 
(all  things  considered)  even  delayed  to  Ireland  ;  nor  can  I 
perfectly  comprehend  the  "  nothing-like-leather  policy"  of 
the  Irish  agitators,  who  apply  their  one  eternal  remedy  to 
every  malady  which  in  turn  besets  the  state.  But  this  I 
will  be  bold  to  assert,  that  if  every  substantial  justice  were 
distributed  among  the  various  classes  of  citizens,  which  an 
amended  legislation  can  in  possibility  effect,  nothing  would 
be  gained  for  the  unhappy  land,  as  long  as  distrust  and  tur- 
bulence are  voted  permanent, — as  long  as  the  labouring 
classes  are  industriously  taught  to  hate,  fear,  and  despise  all 
that  are  not  of  themselves  !  After  all,  sir,  our  first  and  most 
urgent  want  is  a  breathing-time  from  faction — a  moment  of 
repose — a  suspension  of  blood-spilling  and  destruction  of 
property, — of  the  property  of  the  poor,  more  than  of  the 
rich, — a  leisure  to  think,  to  calculate  to  learn,  and  to  labour. 


MR.  O'HANLON. 

Oh  yes,  your  Riverince,  to  be  sure !    it  would  be  a  fine 
10* 


M)4  MANOR    SACKVILLE* 

thing  if  we  were  all  to  go  to  sleep  and  wait  aivhile,  and  lave 
things  to  right  themselves.  Your  Riverince  has  been  taking 
a  lafe  out  of  the  new  Misther  Sackville's  book.  Them  Avere 
his  very  words  at  the  meeting  the  other  day.  He's  a  great 
philozover  for  certain  ;  though  no  great  friend  to  the  clargy, 
after  all,  Dr.  Everard,  no  more  than  to  the  parsons  ;  and  I 
can  tell  5^ou,  he  gave  a  death-blow  to  his  popularity  at  the 
dinner  given  him  by  the  pathriots  of  Mogherow,  when  he 
took  part  with  the  base  Whigs,  and  talked  of  conciliaytion. 
He'll  never  be  returned  for  the  county,  nor  any  of  his  sort,  if 
there  were  twenty  vacancies  a  year,  for  years  to  come. 
They'd  sooner  return  Sir  Job,  or  the  greatest  purple  marks- 
man in  the  province. 

DR.  EVERARD. 

So  much  the  worse  for  us  all.  It  proves  how  little  princi- 
ple, and  how  much  personal  feeling,  directs  all  your  views 
and  conduct.  Mr.  Lumley  Sackville  is  precisely  the  sort  of 
man  the  country  wants.  High-minded,  uncompromising, 
unswayed  by  any  personal  want  or  ambition,  and  as  much 
above  lending  himself  to  party  in  power,  as  to  faction  out, — 
his  calm  temperament,  and  profound  sensibility,  his  great 
book-knowledge  and  travelled  acquirements,  singularly  fit 
him  for  the  task  he  has  entered  on,  for  benefitting  the  condi- 
tion of  the  poor,  and  pacifying  the  country.  He  has  begun 
at  the  right  end.  He  has  lowered  his  rents,  and  raised 
wages  ; — and  in  return  for  this,  he  is  beset  with  anonymous 
letters,  filled  with  the  most  brutal  abuse  of  himself  and  his 
family.  Ballads  are  made  by  the  poets  of  Mogherow,  and 
sung  about  the  streets. 

MRS.  BRALAGHAN. 

Och  !  the  Lord  save  us  !  and  who  sowld  them  ballads,  I 
wonder  ? 

DR.  EVERARD. 

You  did  Mrs.  Bralagan.  Your  shop  is  the  great  centre  of 
idleness,  gossip,  and  faction,  of  the  whole  town. 

MRS.  BRALAGHA]?^. 
I  declare  to  the  Lord,  this  blessed  day  .... 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  10^ 


DP..  EVERARD. 


Hold  your  tongue,  woman, — you  shall  reply  to  these 
charges  in  another  and  more  solemn  place.  But  they  have 
done  worse  ;  they  have  houghed  his  cattle,  burned  his'barns, 
and  even  shot  at  him  from  behind  a  hedge,  the  barbarians  ! 


MR.  M'DERMOT. 

To  be  sure,  your  Riverince,  that's  all  mighty  bad  ;  but 
the  craturs  are  maddened  by  oppression,  and  fairly  ground  to 
th'  arth.  And  sure,  sir,  you  Avouldn't  stifle  the  free  breath- 
ings of  immortal  liberty,  as  the  bard  says — 

Sublime  was  the  warning  when  liberty  spoke, 
And  grand  was  the  .... 

DR.  EVERARD. 

Liberty  !  do  you  call  destroying  life — murdering  a  man  in 
cold  blood  for  the  taking  of  land,  which  another  chooses  to 
keep  for  nothing  ! — libert}-  ?  Was  it  "  liberty  spoke"  to  the 
poor  Phelans,  when  their  house  was  burned  over  their  heads? 
and  was  it  liberty  placed  the  lighted  sod  in  the  thatch  of 
widow  Murphy's  cabin  ?  or  shot  out  the  eyes  of  pretty,  inno- 
cent MaryHowlan?  Is  it  liberty,  which  leaves  no  man  to 
the  exercise  of  his  own  industry,  the  master  of  his  own  con- 
duct,— which  suffers  him  neither  to  hire,  nor  part  with  a 
servant,  except  according  to  the  good  pleasure  of  conspiring 
legislators,  and  midnight  assassins  ? — which  interferes  be- 
tween the  husband  and  wife,  father  and  son,  and  leaves  no 
tie,  no  affection,  unviolated  or  sacred  ?  This  is  the  precious 
liberty  that  must  subject  us  all  to  some  law  of  unexampled 
coercion,  suited  to  such  unexampled  vileness, — a  liberty,, 
which  will  degrade  us,  to  bless  the  hand  that  thus  protects  us. 
from  ourselves.  Gentlemen,  I  wish  you  a  good  evening  :. 
but  before  I  go,  I  apprise  you  that  I  mean  to  address  the 
people  from  the  altar  to-morrow,  I  will  read  over  all  the 
slanders  and  calumnies  printed  and  circulated  against  Mr. 
Sackville, — against  one  w^ho  is  able  and  willing  to  be  our 
best  friend.  I  will  read  them  with  my  own  notes  ;  and  if 
possible,  I  will  prevent  one  more  absentee  from  being  added 
to  the  list  of  Ireland's  best  and  banished  friends. — I  will 
make  one  effort  to  avert  that  av^'ful  moment,  when  such  men 
as  you,  Mr.  M'Dermot,  and  you,  Mr.  O'Hanlon,  and  Mr.. 


106  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

Finnigan,  may  drive  a  friendly  government  into  the  fatal 
necessity  of  suspending  the  laws  of  the  land,  in  order  to 
protect  the  laws  of  humanity. 

[Exit.] 

MRS.  BRALAGHAN. 

There's  for  you  now  ! — there's  a  parish  priest ! — show  me 
up  at  the  ahar  !  the  ould  furrin  Jesuit !  Oh,  these  priests 
mistake  themselves  intirely. 

MR.  BRALAGHAJ^,  (in  a  passion.) 

Why  thin,  blood  and  nounter,  will  you  hould  your  gab, 
Biddy  Bralaghan  ?  Do  you  want  to  bring  ruin  alive  on  me 
and  mine  ?  Is  it  the  shop  you  want  to  see  shut  up,  and  the 
childer  sint  to  beg  the  world  ?  What  Father  Everard  says  is 
true  enough.  Mr.  Sackville's  a  fine  gintleman,  and  a  great 
frind  to  the  people.  And  didn't  Lady  Emily  take  every 
skreed  of  stuff,  linen,  and  ratteen  the  blessed  day,  out  of  the 
shop,  without  even  axing  the  price  ? 

MR,  M'DERMOT,  (emphatically.) 

Hold  your  tongue,  sir,  and  take  a  friend's  advice.  Mr. 
Sackvillie  may  have  the  priests — that  is,  some  of  them,  with 
him  ;  but  the  curates  are  against  him,  we  know  that :  and  it 
is  not  your  furrin  fine  gintlemin  that  the  people  Avill  listen  to ; 
them  who  take  state  on  themselves,  and  are  never  "  hail  fel- 
low well  met"  Avith  the  likes  of  us — but  hould  their  heads 
high,  and  rade  great  moral  lessons,  forsooth,  as  the  news- 
papers call  it, — like  his  Riverince,  who  is  just  gone ;  and 
who'd  sell  us  all  for  a  dinner  at  Manor  Sackville.  God  for- 
give me  for  saying  that  of  the  clargy.  But  there's  them, 
Jemmy  Bralaghan,  who  is  more  powerful  than  either  priests 
or  curates,  and  who  will  send  Mr.  Sackville  back  to  Avhere 
he  came  from.  Let  him  go  to  his  athiest  friends,  the  Frinch 
liberals,  and  the  political  econom}^  feelosophers  of  Edinburgh. 
He's  not  wanted  here  at  all  at  all ;  and  go  he  will,  surely, 
afore  long.  Remimber,  thin,  James  Bralaghan,  that  you  are 
a  thriving  man,  and  was  so  before  this  Mr.  Sackville  came 
here,  and  Avill  be  still,  plaze  God,  when  he  is  gone.  -  For 
them  is  here,  and  amongst  ourselves,  who  can  make  you,  and 
break  you,  and  will  be  here  to  the  ind  of  time.  So  take  an 
hint — -mind  your  business,  and  be  aisy ;  and  as  for  your  par- 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  10*7 

lour,  name  your  terms,  sir,  and  you  shall  haA^e  them  for  the 
use  of  it.  Mrs.  Bralaghan  dear,  good  evening  to  you.  You 
are  a  good  Irishman,  anyhow,  and  an  honour  to  your  sex  and 
country,  ma'am. 

MRS.  BRALAGHAN. 

Good  evening,  sir  !  and  I  am  intirely  obligated  to  you  for 
the  great  compliment. 

JMR.  O'HANLON. 

I  say  ditto  to  Mr.  M'Dermot,  ma'am,  as  the  poet  has  it. 
Good  evening,  Mr.  Bralaghan. 

[Exeunt  patriots— nianent  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bralaghan.J 

MRS.  BRALAGHAN,  (turning  on  her  husband  with  a  mixture  of  con- 
tempt and  anger.) 

You  dirty  Omadaun,  ye  !  Is  this  the  way  you  drive  raal 
gintlemin  out  of  the  place,  you  turn-coat,  orange  papist, — 
and  bring  ruin  on  us  intirely  ?  Is  it  denounced  you'll  have 
us,  to  the  pathriots  of  Dublin,  like  Pat  Karney  of  Sally 
Noggin,  that  had  to  shut  up  his  shop,  and  go  to  prison,  with 
six  helpless  childer,  because  not  a  good  Irishman  in  the 
barony  dared  dale  with  him.  It's  thrue  enough  what 
Misther  M'Dermot  said,  that  they  can  break  you,  or  make 
you  ;  and  if  the  pathriots  set  their  face  agen  ye,  sorrow 
ounce  of  tay  or  shugar,  or  as  much  as  a  penny  watch-light, 
ever  ye  need  think  of  selling. 

MR.  BRALAGHAN. 

Hould  your  tongue,  Biddy  Bralaghan  ;  and  don't  purvoke 
me  to  lay  my  mark  on  ye.  It's  you  ma'am,  that  brought  all 
these  idlers  about  the  place  :  and  what  good  are  they,  only 
to  ride  my  counter,  and  ate  the  sugar-candy,  and  take  patterns 
of  waistcoats  they  never  pay  for  ;  keeping  the  dacent  ould 
custhomers  out  of  the  place  intirely  ! 

MRS.  BRALAGHAN. 

Get  out  of  that,  you  concaited  bosthoon.  Was  it  I  that 
sent  you  up  to  town  to  make  spaches,  Avhen  you  got  yourself 
laughed  at  in  the  Dublin  Evening,  ye  never-do-good,  you  ? 


108  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

MR.  BRALAGHAN,  (a  little  sore.) 

By  the  powers,  if  you  say  another  word,  I'll  lay  my  mark 
on  you,  Biddy  Bralaghan. 

MRS.  BRALAGHAN. 

You  bate  me,  you  dirty  Orange  papist  ? — do  then,  do. 

[Takes  up  a  mop  and  strikes  him.  A  contest  ensues,  in  which  the 
lady  has  the  advantage,  and  beats  her  husband  to  her  own  perfect 
satisfaction.] 

MR.  BRALAGHAN. 
Och  !  Murther,  murther,  murther — mille  murther  ! 

[Enters  Father  Phil.] 

_  FATHER  PHIL. 

Hulloa !  why  what's  the  matter  here,  my  dear  Mrs.  Bra- 
laghan ? 

MRS.  BRALAGHAN,  (drops  the  broom  and  bursts  into  tears.) 

Oh  Father  Phil,  your  Riverince  is  heartily  welcome,  och 
hone  !  you've  saved  my  life,  sir  ;  you're  just  come  in  time — 
it's  only  for  your  Riverince,  I'd  be  a  dead  woman,  this  bless- 
ed evening. 

MR.  BRALAGHAN,  (wiping  the  blood  from  his  nose.) 

Och,  father  Phil,  it  was  God  sent  you,  sir.  Only  for  you, 
that  terrible  woman,  there,  would  have  had  my  life,  sir,  and 
ray  poor  fatherless  children  be  left  desolate  this  day. 

FATHER  PHIL. 

This  is  all  very  bad.  I  am  sorry  to  see  so  handsome  and 
so  superior  a  woman  as  you,  Mrs.  Bralaghan,  conduct  her- 
self this  way.     What's  all  this  about  ? 

[Mrs.  Bralaghan  sobs  violently.] 

MR.  BRALAGHAN. 

Why  then  politics — sir,  it's  all  about  politics.  That  weary 
woman,  there,  gives  me  neither  pace  nor  quiet. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  109 

MRS.  BRALAGHAN,  (interrupting  him.) 

Och  !  you'd  swear  my  life  away,  you  ruffian,  you  would. 
Plaze  your  Riverince,  just  step  into  the  parlour,  and  take  a 
cup  of  tay,  sir,  and  I'll  tell  you  all,  as  if  it  was  before  your 
face.     This  way,  your  Riverince, — this  way,  Father  Phil. 

[She  wipes  her  eyes,  settles  her  cap,  and  follows  Father  Phil  into  the 
parlour,  slapping  the  door  after  her.  Mr.  Bralaghan  washes  his 
face,  looks  after  them,  and  sighs.] 

MR.  BRALAGHAN. 

Well,  there's  no  use  in  saying  a  word.  There's  no  use 
in  making  a  deffince.  There's  an  ould  saying,  that  a  priest 
and  a  woman  will  bate  the  divil  out  of  Luttrel's  town. 

[Puts  on  his  hat,  looks  in  the  glass,  and  goes  to  the  shop  door.  Looks 
about  him  ;  draws  the  half  door  after  him— sallies  out— meets  a 
friend  from  Sally  Noggin,  who  offers  to  treat  him  to  a  tumbler — 
turns  mto  "  the  ould  White  Horse,"  where  he  remains  till  morning. 
Comes  home  very  drunk,  and  beats  Mrs,  Bralaghan  within  an  inch 
of  her  life,  and  then  falls  asleep.] 


110  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


SCENE  VII. 


[An  apartment  at  the  seat  of  Sir  Job  Blackacre,  something  between 
a  study  and  a  public  office. — Sir  Job  Blackacre,  (high  sherifl^) 
Mr.  Jones,  (his  Sub,)  seated,  writing  at  a  table.] 


SIR  JOB. 

So  then,  during  my  absence,  a  pardon  came  down  for 
Cornelius  Brian,  and  a  sharp  letter  from  the  Secretary's 
office,  desiring  magistrates  to  look  closer  into  the  police  ap- 
pointment.    By -,  if  things  are  to  go  on  in  this  way,  the 

game  is  up.  What  is  the  use  of  our  getting  dangerous  char- 
acters convicted,  if  government  is  to  listen  to  every  repre- 
sentation in  their  favour,  and  grant  pardons  because  there 
may  be  something  irregular  in  the  proceeding  ? 

JONES. 

The  power  of  the  landed  interest  is  not  what  it  w^as,  sir. 
They  stand,  at  the  Castle,  too  much  in  awe  of  what  is  said 
in  parliament ;  and  thus  the  Catholics  contrive  to  rule  the 
land  through  their  own  members. 

SIR  JOB. 

Let  the  Lord-Lieutenant  keep  the  people  down,  then,  him- 
self; for  we  will  not  hold  the  commission,  to  be  reprimanded 
for  acting  on  our  own  views,  who  are  on  the  spot,  and  able 
to  judge  for  ourselves.  Besides,  how  do  they  expect  the 
policemen  to  do  their  duty  with  zeal,  if  they  are  to  be  dis- 
missed for  every  trifling  mistake  or  overt  act  of  loyalty? 

JONES. 

Very  true,  sir?  This  pardon  of  Corney  Brian*3  will 
make  men  cautious  how  they  swear.  It  is  a  direct  insult 
upon  the  magistrates,  who  took  such  pains  to  bring  the  fellow 
to  trial. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  HI 


SIR  JOB. 

This  is  Mr.  Sackville's  doing.  I  had  an  intimation  in 
Dublin  of  what  was  going-  on.  That  man  will  not  be  easy, 
till  he  gets  a  message  from  some  of  his  brother  justices.  But 
I  will  try  and  get  round  him,  and  show  him  how  much  he  is 
mistaken.  There  is  no  governing  the  country,  if  the  gentry 
do  not  pull  together.  This  pardon  will  make  Sackville  the 
most   popular  man   in  the  country  ;  and  that,  I  suspect,  is 


what  he  is  aiming  at. 


MR.  JONES. 


Never  fear,  Sir  Job  ;   I  have  taken  care  of  that,  nately.     I 
have  *'  frustrated  his  politics  "  there,  sir. 


SIR  JOB. 
As  how,  Jones, — as  how,  I  pray  ? 

MR.  JONES. 

You  were  not  at  home  when  the  pardon  came.  l^yo%  knoWy 
could  not  open  it,  and  so  there  it  lay  ;  and  in  the  mane  time, 
the  sentinel  was  somehow  removed  from  Corney's  side  of 
the  strong  house — you  understand  ?  and  he  is  off,  without 
waiting  for  the  government's  permission. 

SIR  JOB,  (chuckling.) 

By  Jove,  you're  a  clever  fellow,  sir.  So  Mr.  Sackville 
takes  nothing  by  his  interference  ;  and  his  pardon  and  popu- 
larity are  swamp'd  together— ha  !  ha  !  ha ! 

MR.  JONES. 

Exactly,  sir  ;  and  what's  more,  Mrs.  Honor  Brian  thinks 
Mr.  Sackville  was  humbugging,  just  to  take  Corney  out  of 
the  hands  of  M'Dermot  of  Mogherow,  who  was  going  up 
with  a  memorial  to  the  Lord-Lieutenant  to  be  presented  by  the 
Liberator  in  person.  She  swears  that  he  has  sowld  the  mass, 
and  threatens  that  she  will  have  his  life.  She  is  a  powerful 
woman,  I  can  tell  you,  and  one  that  will  keep  her  word. 

11 


112  BIANOR  SACKVILLK. 


SIR.  JOB. 


Tut,  tut,  a  poor  mad  creature — I'll  send  her  to  the  tread- 
mill, if  she  is  troublesome.     We  must  not  go  too  far. 

MR.  JONES. 

Well,  if  gentlemen  won't  be  comformable  and  hold  each 
other  up,  they  should  be  made  to  suffer  a  little.  It  would  be 
a  mighty  good  plan,  not  to  pass  the  liberal  Mr.  Sackville's 
presentments.  Nothing  has  been  done  to  the  roads  on  the 
Sackville  part  of  the  country  for  these  two  years,  owing  to 
the  late  man's  illness  ;  and  the  way  to  the  demesne  is  hardly 
passible  on  this  side.  If  he  should  break  his  carriage,  or 
his  neck,  owing  to  his  obstinacy,  why  he  might  learn  better 
another  time. 

SIR  JOB. 
He  deserves  it  richly :  but  the  example  would  be  a  bad 
one.     No  gentlemen's  presentments  ought  to  be  questioned. 

MR.  JONES. 

It  would  be  as  well,  then,  if  I  spoke  to  the  going  judge, 
just  to  let  him  know  what  sort  of  a  person  we  have  gotten 
amongst  us.  Judge  Blunderjoke  always  consults  me,  in  his 
chamber,  on  the  state  of  the  country,  before  he  ventures  into 
court. 

[Enter  a  servant.] 

SERVANT. 

Sarjeant  Donovan,  Sir  Job,  desires  to  speak  a  v/ord  with 
you. 

SIR  JOB. 

Show  him  in.  [E7iter  Sarjeant — servant  goes  out.]  What 
is  the  matter  now  ? 

SARJEANT  DONOVAN,  (breathlessly.) 

Och,  sir,  I  beg  your  honour's  pardon,  but  there's  great 
work  below  in  the  town,  Sir  Job ;  quite  a  ruction  down  in 
Sally  Noggin. 


MA.NOR    SACKyjI,I,j;.  113 

SIR  JOB. 

Again  !  why  what  the  devil^s  the  matter  now  ? 

SARJEANT. 

Why,  plaze  your  worship,  this  is  a  grand  lodge  day  ;  and 
Sarjeant  Mulrooney  and  I  w^ere  just  taking  a  pint  of  beer, 
sir,  at  the  Rosstrevor  Arms,  at  the  little  window  that  looks 
down  Blarney  Lane,  when  the  widow  Fogarty  runs  into  the 
room  in  a  great  flusteration  ;  and  says  she,  gintlemin,  says 
she,  there's  a  great  ruction  in  the  main  street.  The  lodge 
is  up,  says  she,  and  every  loyal  Protestant  in  the  town,  says 
she,  in  regard  of  Mr.  Sackville's  riding  with  the  boys,  and 
the  pardon  for  Corney  Brian,  who  is  all  as  one  as  a  dead  man, 
says  she,  that  is  Mr.  Sackville,  running  for  his  life,  and 
stones  flying  like  kites  after  him,  and  his  white  hat  that  be- 
trayed him.  Only  for  Musther  Galbraith,  who  rides  beside 
him  for  purtection,  says  she,  in  his  own  gig,  divil  a  hat, 
white  or  black,  iver  he'd  put  on  again  ;  so  with  that,  your 
worship,  I  takes  the  short  cut,  and  .... 

SIR  JOB  (rising  in  great  perturbation.) 

The  blockheads  !  the  cursed,  mischievous,  meddling  block- 
heads !  How  unlucky  and  ill-timed  !  I  hope  you  flew  to 
Mr.  Sackville's  assistance.  Where  is  he?  Is  he  coming 
here  ? 

SARJEANT. 

Plaze  your  honour,  we  had  no  orders;  but  was  delegated 
to  keep  quiet;  and  so  I  came  off  to  tell  your  honour;  and 
if  Mr.  Sackville  is  not  a  dead  man  afore  this,  he  is  on  his 
way  here. 

SIR  JOB,  (with  increased  emotion.) 

Order  my  horse  immediately.  Jones,  you  must  come  with 
me.     This  is  the  very  thing  I  wanted  to  prevent. 

[The  door  opens.  The  servant  announces  Mr.  Sackville,  who  enters, 
preceded  by  Mr.  Galbraith,  and  followed  by  two  policemen.  Mr. 
Sackville  is  covered  with  mud  ;  the  crown  of  his  hat  is  beaten  in  ; 
his  face  is  much  flushed,  but  his  manner  is  cool  and  collected.] 


114  MANOR  SACKVILLE. 

SIR  JOB,  (with  marked  deference.) 

Mr.  Sackville,  I  am  most  flattered  by  the  honour  of  this 
visit.  I  had  purposed  anticipating  tliis  courtesy.  [Pushes 
an  arm-chair.]  Pray  allow  me.  I  hope  her  ladyship  has 
received  some  game,  which  Lady  Blackacre  sent  her  this 
morning.  My  good  Galbraith,  how  do  you  do  ?  [Gal- 
braith  botes  obsequiously.']  Mr.  Sackville,  this  is  Mr.  Jones, 
my  Sub-sheriff  and  particular  friend. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (sits  much  fatigued.  After  coldly  acknowledging 
Sir  Job's  civilities,  and  introduction  of  the  Sub-sheriff,  he  turns  to  Mr. 
Galbraith.) 

Pray  be  so  good,  Mr.  Galbraith,  as  to  see  whether  my 
horse  is  much  injured.  It  is  Lady  Emily's  favourite.  I  am 
convinced  he  is  hurt.  The  stone  hit  him  on  the  right  shoul- 
der and  rebounded  on  mine.  \_Rubs  his  shoulder.]  If  you 
see  any  necessity,  pray  send  for  a  veterinary  surgeon  ;  and 
despatch  some  one  to  Manor  Sackville  for  the  phaeton  : — but 
first  look  to  the  groom,  who,  I  fear,  has  not  escaped  scot- 
free. 

[Galbraith  winks  at  Jones,  who  follows  him  out  of  the  room.] 


SIR  JOB,  (with  affected  emotion.) 

God  bless  me,  Mr.  Sackville  ! — a  stone,  did  you  say, 
thrown  at  you  ?  Has  any  thing  happened  !  You,  who  have 
done  so  much  for  the  ungrateful  villains.  This  is  Father 
Phil's  doing,  and  the  patriots  of  Mogherow.  Did  they  way- 
lay you,  sir,  or  how  ? 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Thy  waylaid  me  after  an  Irish  fashion,  by  attacking  me 
when  my  back  was  turned  ;  but  it  was  not  Father  Phil,  nor 
the  persons  you  style  patriots. 

SIR  JOB. 

God  blgss  me,  sir  !     Where — how— who  was  it  then  ? 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 
Xt  was  an  orange  r^pb,  §ir  Job,  assembled  by  some  of  the 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  115 

orentlemeii  of  the  county,  in  defiance  of  the  government  and 
the  law  of  the  land.  I  was  on  my  way  to  your  house  ;  and, 
by  Mr.  Galbraith's  advice,  took  the  short  cut,  as  he  calls  it, 
through  Sally  Noggin  ;  though  my  groom  assured  me  it  was 
the  longest  way.  In  passing  through  the  town,  I  was  struck 
by  the  extraordinary  manifestations  of  party  feeling  and 
insubordination.  The  windows  were  hung  with  orange 
flags  ;  a  procession  of  men,  women,  and  children,  tricked 
out  with  orange  badges,  and  preceded  by  a  drum  and  fife, 
playing  party  tunes,  were  parading  the  streets,  and  shout- 
ing offensive  party  cries  most  vociferously.  I  saw,  too,  a 
few  meagre  ragged,  and  desperate-looking  wretches,  peering 
with  their  dark,  scowling  faces  from  behind  the  mud  hovels, 
on  the  skirts  of  the  town,  the  doors  of  which  (a  rare  occur- 
rence in  Ireland)  were  closed.  A  party  which  followed  us 
through  the  town,  ordered  us  to  take  off  our  hats  to  an  effigy 
of  King  William,  stuck  over  the  pot-house,  called  the  Ross- 
trevor  Arms.  I  turned  about  in  spite  of  Mr.  Galbraith's 
remonstrance,  to  address  the  ringleaders,  who  actually  hung 
upon  my  horse's  flanks  ;  when  I  was  saluted  with  a  shower 
of  stones  and  mud.  Galbraith,  in  his  mistaken  kindness, 
whipped  on  my  horse,  who,  frightened  by  ihe  noise,  and  hit 
more  than  once,  became  unmanageable.  The  wretched, 
drunken  people  pursued  me  with  shouts  and  execrations  ; 
and  what  was  more  effectually  annoying,  with  stones.  My 
groom,  [  fancy,  is  injured  ;  and  so  is  my  horse.  Mr.  Gal- 
braith alone  escaped :  he  was  in  his  gig,  and  was  frequently 
cheered  by  the  populace. 


SIR  JOB,  (apparently  much  shocked.) 

I  am  really  much  distressed.  These  loyal  little  festivals 
usually  pass  over  in  such  perfect  harmony,  though  always 
misrepresented  by  the  demagogue  press.  You  were  mis- 
taken, my  dear  sir,  for  some  unpopular  person,  who  had  out- 
raged their  feelings. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (laughing.) 

Oh,  no  ! — not  I  indeed  !  I  was  saluted  with  the  cry  of 
popish  Sackville  ! — Judas  Iscariot, — castle-hack, — Protestant 
persecutor, — and  the  first  Sackville  that  ever  turned  traitor  to 
the  good  cause. 

11* 


116  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

SIR  JOE,  (shaking  his  head,  and  looking  pathetic  ) 

Oh,  Mr.  Sackville  I  you  don't  know  this  country.  This 
is  a  popish  plot,  sir,  and  the  priests  are  at  the  hottom  of  it. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

For  heaven's  sake,  no  more  of  this,  Sir  Job.  I  am  sick  at 
heart  of  plots  and  counterplots.  This  is  a  wretched  country, 
take  it  which  way  you  will.  But  I  have  come  to  you  on  par- 
ticular business,  and  have  no  time  to  lose  in  further  discussion 
now.  I  expect  some  friends  from  Dublin  at  dinner,  and  must 
be  at  home  by  seven. 

SIR  JOB,  (eagerly.) 

You  surely  will  not  leave  us  this  evening  ?  I  hope  to  have 
the  honour  of  your  company  at  dinner ;  my  honourable  and 
reverend  friend.  Dr.  Polypus,  and  a  few  distinguished  per- 
sons, whom  you  ought  to  know,  Mr.  Sackville,  fortunately, 
happen  to  dine  here  to-day.  Allow  me  to  press  on  you  the 
necessity  of  knowing  ...... 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (interrupting  him.) 

Gluite  impossible.  Sir  Job  !  The  fact  is,  1  expect  the  Lord- 
Lieutenant  at  Manor  Sackville,  and  only  heard  of  the  honour 
he  intends  me  by  last  night's  post.  He  is  in  this  part  of  the 
country,  and  will  arrive  by  seven ;  and  I  Avish  to  be  in  the 
way.     The  business,  sir,  that  brought  me  here,  is  ...  . 

SIR  JOB. 

The  Lord-Lieutenant  here  !  impossible  !  I  beg  your 
pardon  a  thousand  times,  Mr.  Sackville ;  but,  many  as  are 
the  indiscreet  things  the  Lord-Lieutenant  has  done,  he  surely 
will  not  venture  into  this  disturbed  county, — at  this  fearful 
moment,  too  ! 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (eoolly.) 
Yes,  he  will. 

SIR  JOB. 

And  for  what  unlucky  purpose,  sir  !     What  new  insult  is 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  117 

to  be  perpetrated  on  the  loyal  gentlemen  of  this  ill-treated 
county.  He  comes,  I  suppose,  at  the  head  of  an  army,  at 
least  ? 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Not  exactly  ; — I  think  he  mentions  that  he  brings  an  aide- 
de-camp.  He  drives  over  in  his  own  phaeton,  with  his 
groom.  He  is  simply  coming  to  grouse  in  the  mountains 
for  a  day  or  two,  and  returns  by  his  yacht,  which  is  anchored 
behind  the  rocks  that  shelter  your  pretty,  but  rather  obstrep- 
erous village  of  Sally  Noggin.  [Sir  Job  exhibits  the  greatest 
amazement  and  confusion.}  But  my  visit.  Sir  Job,  relates  to 
the  most  important  part  of  his  Excellency's  letter,  by  which 
it  appears  that  a  pardon,  I  wrote  about  some  time  since,  for 
one  Cornelius  Brian,  came  down  from  the  Castle  three  days 
ago.  It  is  about  that  I  have  ridden  over  here  this  morning, 
Sir  Job.  Every  day,  every  hour  is  of  consequence,  where 
the  life  and  liberty  of  a  human  being  are  at  stake. 

SIR  JOB,  (confused,  but  affecting  great  carelessness.) 

Indeed,  sir  !  I  did  not  know  that  you  were — that  you  could 
be  interested  for  that  notorious  ruffian  and  outlaw,  Corney 
Brian,  the  most  dangerous  of  the  Whitefoot  gang.  It  is  fly- 
ing in  the  face  of  the  magistracy  of  the  county,  Mr.  Sackville  : 
but  I  will  inquire.  [Rings  the  bell  and  a  servant  e7iters.] 
Send  Mr.  Jones  here. 

[Enter  Mr.  Jones.] 

Oh  !  Mr.  Jones,  has  any  pardon  come  down  from  govern- 
ment for  Cornelius  Brian,  during  my  absence  ? 

MR.  JONES. 
Yes,  sir  ;  it  arrived  three  days  ago. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Then  how  comes  it,  the  prisoner  is  not  discharged  ?  To- 
morrow was  appointed  for  his  execution. 

SIR  JOB. 
Aye,  Mr.  Jones,  how  comes  it  ?  Answer  Mr.  Sackville. 


118  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


MR.  JONES. 


Why,  Sir  Job,  the  prisoner  has  discharged  himself.  As- 
sisted by  his  wife,  it  seems,  he  burst  the  iron  bars  of  his 
prison  window,  and  has  escaped.  They  are  now  up  the 
mountains,  at  the  head  of  a  new  gang,  called  the  Redfeet ; 
and  have  thus  feloniously  anticipated  Mr.  Sackville's  effort  in 
their  favour. 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Then  has  he  been  driven  to  one  desperate  action  more,  sir, 
by  your  neglect  ?  He  had  not  escaped  the  day  before  j^ester- 
day  ;  for  I  myself  saw  him,  in  his  damp,  dark  dungeon, 
lying  in  a  state  of  feverish  excitation,  which  fitted  him  for 
any  act  of  violence.  His  miserable  wife  was  never  away 
from  his  grated  window.  Unfortunate  wretch  !  had  his 
pardon  reached  him  three  days  ago,  he  might  have  been 
restored  to  his  family,  to  industry,  and  reformation.  I  had 
work,  and  a  cottage  prepared  for  him.  I  can  well  under- 
stand his  impatience,  so  long  detained  in  prison,  so  narrowly 
escaping  the  gallows  !  convicted,  too,  on  the  oath  of  a  noto- 
rious perjurer  !  Our  own  precipitate  credulity,  also  so  much 
in  fault !  Gracious  God  !  is  there  a  country  in  the  world 
where  human  life  is  at  so  low  a  price,  as  in  this  unhappy 
Ireland ! 


SIR  JOB,  (shaking  his  head.) 

You  have  yet  a  long  lesson  to  learn,  sir,  with  respect  to  this 
country.  We  all  give  you  credit  for  your  good  intentions, 
Mr.  Sackville  ;  but  regret  you  are  not  a  more  practical  man. 
Your  English  notions  are  very  amiable  ;  and  what  you  call 
the  philosophy  of  politics  sounds  very  well  in  an  Edinburgh 
Review,  or  a  national  novel ;  but  such  views  and  principles 
are  utterly  inapplicable  to  this  country.  For  instance,  sir, 
the  verdict  against  Brian  might  not  be  strictly  borne  out  by 
the  evidence  ;  but  the  whole  family  are  dangerous  persons, 
and  ringleaders  of  the  most  rebellious  and  disturbed  peas- 
antry in  Ireland.  A  little  hanging  Avould  have  done  him,  or 
any  of  them,  no  harm,  (right  or  wrong,")  by  way  of  exam- 
ple. But  as  he  has  now  escaped  with  his  life,  a  few  days 
more  or  less  in  gaol  could  have  made  no  difference  to  him. 
It  is  a  fate  they  are  all  prepared  for. 


MANOll    SACKVILLE.  119 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

My  English  notions,  as  you  call  them,  Sir  Job,  do  indeed 
make  me  regard  some  things  in  this  country  in  a  light  which 
I  am  told  is  thought  rather  extraordinary.  For  instance,  I 
cannot  think  my  rector,  Dr.  Polypus,  quite  justified  in 
bringing  his  pauper  parishioners  into  the  ecclesiastical  courts, 
and  ruining  them  with  law  costs,  upon  dues  of  sixpences 
and  shillings.  Neither  do  I  hold  it  very  Christian  conduct, 
when,  upon  my  undertaking  to  defend  a  tenant  whom  he 
most  grossly  injured,  the  same  reverend  gentleman  set  up  a 
figure  of  himself  in  a  window  to  be  shot  at,  in  order  to  make 
the  world  believe  it  was  an  act  of  revenge  in  my  unfortunate 
protege,  not  wholly  unsanctioned  by  myself. 

SIR  JOB. 

Mr.  Sackville,  I  must  crave  the  liberty  of  ^n  old  friend  of 
your  family — of  the  name  and  house  of  Sackville  at  least — 
to  remind  you  that  you  are  a  stranger  as  yet  to  Ireland.  My 
honourable  and  reverend  friend  is  a  most  estimable  character, 
and  an  ornament  to  the  church.  You  are  w^rong  to  believe 
all  you  hear  against  him.  Besides,  when  you  know^  the 
people  better,  you  will  yourself,  be  obliged  to  practise  a  little 
innocent  ruse,  every  now  and  then,  to  meet  their  cunning, 
and  to  keep  them  down, — to  keep  them  in  any  thing  like 
peace  and  subordination. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (earnestly.) 

Never,  Sir  Job  ;  you  majr  depend  upon  that.  Honour 
and  honesty  are  the  best  policy  in  all  countries  ;  and  permit 
me  to  remark,  that  you  Irish  gentlemen  set  the  very  worst 
example  to  your  tenantry,  when  you  swerve  from  fair  deal- 
ing with  them.  In  wresting  the  law  aside,  to  violate  natu- 
ral equity,  your  "poisoned  chalice"  will  infallibly  be  "  com- 
mended to  your  own  lips  "  in  the  end. 

SIR  JOB,  (with  astonishmerrf.) 

Why,  Mr.  Sackville,  this  is  pure  radicalism  ; — an  open 
preaching  of  rebellion  !  You  can  know  nothing  of  the  state 
of  Ireland,  sir,  to  broach  such  doctrines  ;  and  let  me,  in  all 
friendship,  advise  you  to  keep  your  politics  to  yourself,  if 
you  wish  to  live  on  good  terms  with  the  loyal  gentlemen  of 
this  county. 


120  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


MR.  SACKVILL^. 


Politics,  Sir  Job, — such  mere  paltry,  local  politics  as  agi- 
tate Ireland, — are  very  little  to  my  taste  ;  Irish  politics,  in- 
deed, I  despair  of  ever  understanding.  So,  the  country  gen- 
tlemen and  I  are  not  likely  to  quarrel  on  that  score  ;  though, 
were  I  disposed  to  side  with  any  party  in  the  state,  it  would 
not  be  the  fear  of  any  man's  displeasure  that  would  prevent 
me.  These,  however,  are  questions  of  com.mon  morality ; 
and  I  cannot  believe  that  any  gentleman  would  knowingly 
uphold  either  fraud  or  cruehy. 

STR  JOB. 

Nay,  sir,  I  mean  no  offence  ;  but  the  fact  is,  Mr.  Sack- 
ville,  (to  tell  you  candidly  the  truth,)  you  have,  in  the  few 
weeks  you  have  passed  on  your  estate,  contrived  to  render 
yourself  an  object  of  suspicion,  if  not  of  absolute  distrust,  to 
many  persons  of  the  first  consideration.  Word  has,  I  am 
told,  gone  to  higher  powers  than  those  vested  in  the  Castle 
of  Dublin,  that  you  are  agitating  the  country  by  your  inter- 
ference between  the  magistracy  and  the  people  :  for  we  have 
agitators  of  all  colours,  religions,  and  ranks,  here,  Mr.  Sack- 
ville. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (pointedly.) 
So  I  perceive,  sir  ;  but  allow  me  to  say  that  this  is  form- 
ing rather  a  hastjr  judgment  upon  the  conduct  of  a  stranger. 
Pray,  Avhat  may  be  the  grounds  of  this  vigilant  dilation  ? — 
that  is,  if  the  persons  of  consideration  have  trusted  you  with 
the  secret. 

SIR  JOB. 

I  know  nothing  directly  on  the  subject ;  but  can  form  a 
tolerable  guess.  Did  3'ou  not  take  informations  of  a  fellow, 
w^hom  a  brother  Magistrate  had  refused  to  listen  to,  because 
he  knew  they  were  against  a  loyal  man  ;  and  have  you  not 
supported  your  tenantry  againt  the  incumbent,  and  thus 
drawn  the  whole  parish  into  a  conspiracy  to  withhold  his 
dues  ?  Then,  again,  your  employment  of  that  notorious 
Cox,  the  architect,  whose  father  was  hung  in  the  rebellion  ; 
— who  is  know-n  to  attend  the  ante-tithe  meetings, — and 
against  whom,  by-the-by,  a  secretary's  warrant  has  just  ar- 
rived by  express. 


MANOR  SACKVILLE.  121 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Of  that  intriafiie  I  was  aware,  and  have  already  traced  the 
matter  to  the  bungiing  mistake  of  one  of  the  subaltern  pre- 
tenders to  exchisive  loyaky  in  the  next  town,  which  has  been 
uro-ed  forward  in  Dublin  by  professional  jealousy.  Mr. 
Cole  is  a  highly-talented,  and  extremely  ill-used  gentlemen ; 
and  if  he  cites  me  as  a  witness  into  court,  I  shall  be  able  to 
lay  bare  a  most  villainous  conspiracy  against  him. 

SIR  JOB. 

The  Attorney-general  will  not  thank  you  for  any  such  inter- 
ference ;  and,  between  ourselves,  if  Cox  should  be  arrested 
at  your  house,  it  will  be  a  mark  of  government  displeasure, 
that  will  for  ever  stamp  your  character  in  the  country,  even 
though  your  friend,  the  Lord-Lieutenant,  were  your  guest 
at  the  time. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Arrive  que  peut^  fais  ce  que  doit,  is  my  motto.  Sir  Job. 
But  really  Ireland  is  a  pleasant  country  to  live  in.  Pray  look 
at  this  anonymous  letter.  It  is  a  notice  to  take  care  of  my- 
self;  for  that  my  life  will  be  in  danger,  if  I  prosecute  "  the 
boys"  who  gave  the  police  a  bating  at  Sally  Noggin  slaugh- 
ter. It  advises  me  to  keep  clear  of  my  Orange  connexions, 
or  Manor  Sackville  will  be  burnt  over  my  head. 

SIR  JOB,  (aside.) 

(The  Honourable  and  Reverend's  hand  writing,  by  hea- 
vens !  How  can  he  be  so  indiscreet  ?)  [Aloud.']  You  see, 
sir,  in  what  an  unsettled  condition  this  country  is ;  and  hov/ 
necessary  it  is  to  protect  the  loyal  against  the  disaffected,  at 
all  hazards. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Nay,  Sir  Job,  I  laugh  at  anonymous  communications. 
None  but  a  scoundrel  would  make  them.  But  still,  is  it  not 
whimsical,  that  while  I  am  set  down  by  your  friends  as  no 
better  than  a  Jacobian,  and  a  Papist,  I  should  be  accounted 
by  my  poorer  neighbours  an  Orangeman,  and  an  oppressor : 
and  this,  too,  merely  for  endeavouring  to  keep  clear  of  all 


123  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

your  local   politics,  and  doing  my  duty  without  favour   or 
affection  ? 


SIR  JOB. 

Keep  clear  of  politics  !  Ha ! — ha ! — ha  !  Pardon  me,  Mr. 
Sackville,  for  laughing.  But,  is  it  possible  that  you  can 
expect  to  keep  clear  of  politics  in  Ireland?  Every  thing 
3^ou  say  or  do,  here,  is  politics.  The  food  you  eat,  the  colour 
of  your  coat,  the  friends  you  see,  and  the  servants  you  employ, 
are  all  badges  of  party.  It  is  sufficient  that  you  do  not  join 
any  one  faction  heartily,  to  be  suspected  and  hated  by  all. 
We  are  all  heaven -born  politicians  in  Ireland. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Heaven-born,  indeed !  for  never  was  there  less  sound  poli- 
tical knowledge,  or  more  ignorance  of  all  that  is  passing  in 
other  countries !  How  miserable  you  make  each  other  by 
your  factious  feuds  and  narrow  views,  is  but  too  evident. 
Philosophy  and  philanthropy  are  alone  without  partizans  in 
Ireland.  Mr.  Jones,  I  will  thank  you  to  trust  me  with  the 
pardon. 


MR.  JONES. 

It  is  here,  sir.  [Gives  the-  paper.  Mr.  Sackville  puts  it 
into  his  breast  pocket.^ 

[Enter  Galbraitb.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (rising  eagerly.) 

Well,  Galbraith,  how  is  poor  James  ?  and  the  horse  too — 
is  it  injured,  or  not  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Nothing  to  signify,  Mr.  Sackville,  only  just  a  little  bruised 
in  the  shoulder  ;  but  the  people  in  the  stables  think  the  poor 
baste  had  better  be  left  alone  for  a  day  or  two  where  it  is. 
James  Gernon  is  brave  and  hearty  too,  after  losing  a  little 
blood ;  and  w^ill  be  as  well  as  ever,  before  he  is  twice  married, 
the  apothecary  says. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  123^ 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (shocked.) 
Was  it  necessary,  then,  to  bleed  him,  poor  fellow  ? 

MR.   GALBRAITH. 

It  was  a  good  precaution,  as  he  got  a  hit  on  the  head; 
and  th'  apothecary  hard  by,  convanient.  And  as  you  are 
going  to  remain  here  all  night  .... 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (interrupting  him.) 

I  am  not  going  to  remain  here,  sir  ;  I  must  return,  though 
I  should  walk  home  ;  but  I  can  ride  the  groom's  horse. 
The  evening  is  falling,  and  we  shall  have  rather  a  dreary 
ride  over  the  mountains  ;  but  I  will  not  again  risk  my  life 
in  Sally  Noggin. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (with  earnestness.) 

It  is,  indeed,  mighty  dreary ;  and  I'm  thinking,  sir,  that 
if  you  left  your  groom's  horse  for  my  man,  and  came  your- 
self back  in  my  gig,  (since  you  are  determined  on  going, 
sir,)  there  is  a  head  to  it,  in  case  of  the  storm  coming  down, 
that's  brewing  above  there,  in  them  divil's  own  black  clouds. 
The  gig  will  skim  along  like  a  curlew,  sir. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 
With  all  my  heart.     My  arm  feels  a  little  stiff  and  sore. 

SIR  JOB,  (earnestly.) 

But  surely  you  will  take  some  refreshment,  Mr.  Sackville, 
before  you  start  ? 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Thank  you,  Sir  Job,  I  never  eat  before  dinner.  I  will 
see  my  groom  and  the  horse ;  and  then,  Mr.  Galbraith,  if 
you  please,  we  must  start.  [^Looks  at  his  tvatch.]  It  is  near 
five  already.  Sir  Job,  you  will  do  me  a  favour,  by  letting 
me  see  you  as  early  as  possible  at  Manor  Sackville — to-mor- 

12 


124  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

row  if  convenient ;  for  I  am  so  hurried  now,  that  I  cannot 
say  all  I  wish. 

SIR  JOB. 

Certainly,  sir  ;  I  shall  have  great  pleasure  in  waiting  upon 
you,  and  paying  my  respects  to  his  Excellency.  I  really 
am  very  sorry  that  you  must  go  ;  hut  if  you  would  change 
your  mind  .... 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (bows  coldly.) 

I  am  very  sorry ;  it  is  impossible  you  see.  Good  even- 
ing. [Exit.] 

[Mr.  Galbraith  shakes  Sir  Job's  hand,  (who  follows  Mr.  Sackville,) 
winks  at  Jones,  and  looks  after  Mr.  Sackville  with  an  expressioji 
of  annoyance  and  anxiety.]  ^  ^ 

u 

MR.  JONES. 

Cannot  you  let  him  go  by  himself?  I  don't  like  T/our 
crossing  the  mountains.  These  are  no  times  for  such 
daring. 


MR.  GALBRAITH. 

It  would  be  as  much  as  my  place  is  worth.  With  that 
mighty  mild  face  of  his,  he  is  the  divil's  own  tyrant.  But 
I  say,  Jones,  Avhile  he  is  looking  to  his  horse  and  groom, 
do  you  slip  out  to  the  back  stable,  and  order  my  man,  Tom 
Reynolds,  to  gallop  away  on  the  groom's  horse  before  us, 
to  the  police  station  at  Mogherow,  and  meet  us  with  a  small 
party  at  the  foot  of  the  military  road.  [Sighs.]  My  mind 
misgives  me  to-night.  There  is  a  weight  on  my  heart  like 
a  bar  of  iron.     The  Lord  protect  us.     Amen  ! 


MR.   JONES,  (laughing.) 

Oh !  you  are  worth  two  dead  men  yet.  Besides  the  fire  is 
burnt  out ;  the  row  in  the  town  has  settled  the  place  for  to- 
night. The  military  too  are  in  the  mountain  barrack  since 
yesterday.  You  will  have  a  fine  drive  home  by  moon-light. 
And  then,  sir,  you  are  going  to  meet  the  Lord-Lieutenant ; 
and  I'll  be  afther  asking  you  for  a  place,  one  of  these  odd- 
come-shortlies. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  125 

MR.   GALBRAITH,  (rallying  and  smiling.) 

Well,  it's  a  great  honour,  surely.  I'd  better  be  off,  and 
make  no  demur.  So  Jones,  dear,  off  with  you  and  do  the 
needful.  Tell  Reynolds  to  lose  not  a  moment.  Let  them 
meet  us  at  the  back  road,  behind  the  ruins  of  Kilnailly.  It's 
a  bad  spot  by  day  or  night ;  [sighs  ;]  but  that's  the  safer  side, 
and  not  at  all  as  one,  as  th'  ould  kiln. 

[Exeunt  by  different  doors.  J 


e 


126  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


t 


SCENE  VIII. 


[A  dreary  sweep  of  country,  making  part  of  a  wide,  shelving  slope, 
that  descends  into  a  billowy  plain,  at  the  foot  of  the  barrier  moun- 
tains of  two  counties.  The  distant  summit  of  Sleive-an-jaroin  is 
seen  rising  in  lofty  grandeur,  above  a  circlet  of  dense  vapours,  and 
catching  the  last  red  gleam  of  the  setting  sun.  The  new  mountain 
military  road  winds  in  a  zig-zag  direction,  till  it  reaches  the  lowest 
declivity,  and  is  lost  in  the  grey,  gloomy  heath  beneath.  Another 
less  distinct  road  winds  by  a  small,  still  lake,  darkened  by  the  sha- 
dows of  the  black  mountains,  which  appear  almost  to  surround 
this' part  of  the  scene.  The  horizon  is  obscured  by  thick  drifting 
clouds.  Emerging  from  the  latter  road,  Mr.  Sackville  appears, 
walking  with  a  quick,  firm  step.  His  arms  are  folded  in  his  cloak. 
He  is  followed  by  Mr.  Galbraith,  muffled  up  to  the  eyes,  who  leads 
down  his  horse  and  gig  from  the  steep  and  rutty  declivity.  The 
lake  road,  at  a  particular  point,  opens  sharply,  between  the  rocky 
jutting  of  the  nether  hills,  into  a  wild  heath,  on  which  the  track  of 
a  bridle  way  is  scarcely  visible,  in  the  increasing  shadows  of  the 
evening.  In  the  perspective,  lies  a  large  mass  of  solitary  ruins, 
cutting  darkly  against  the  red  horizon.  Nearly  opposite  to  these 
ruins  stands  an  old  lime-kiln.  The  dashing  of  the  ocean  against 
the  iron-bound  shore  is  heard  in  the  distance,  echoing  like  remote 
thunder.! 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 


What  awful  sublimity  !  what  savage  desolation  !  The  last 
touch  of  a  moral  interest,  too,  is  given  by  that  fine  ruin  before 
us, — the  monument  of  a  past  and  povrerful  superstition  !  [A 
short  pause.]  What  is  the  name  of  those  picturesque  ruins, 
which  lie  on  the  edge  of  that  gloomy  water  ? 


MR.  GALBRAITH,  (with  impatient  peevishness.) 

u^.-I  see  no  ruins,  sir  ;  the  sharp  w^ind  has  blinded  me  intirely. 
'Tt's  a  great  pity  we  did  not  stay  quietly  at  Sir  Job's,   Mr. 
Sackville.     We  should  be  now  sated  at  an  iligant  good  din- 
ner,  with  a  roaring  fire  at  our  backs,  instead   of  perishing 
alive,  in  this  wild  place. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  127 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Well,  and  so  you  will  soon  be  seated  at  a  good  dinner. 
But  do  you  not  see  those  ruins  before  us  to  the  left  ?  Look  at 
that  hig-h,  pointed  belfry, — at  that  fine  gothic  arch,  with  its 
beautiful  stone-belted  window,  so  delicately  defined  upon  the 
fading  light  of  the  west. 


MR.  GALBRAITH,  (obliged  to  see,  as  he  approaches  the  spot.) 

Why,  sir,  I  suppose  it's  the  ruins  of  the  Abbey  of  Kil- 
nailly.  I  know  of  no  other  in  this  wild  savage  place.  We 
might  as  well  have  come  by  Sally  Noggin;  especially,  as  I 
now  see  that  I  took  the  ould  military  pass,  which  was  cut  in 
the  '98,  instead  of  the  new  military  road  to  the  mountain  bar- 
rack, which  is  newly-finished,  and  Lord  Fitzroy's  men  sta- 
tioned in  it. 


MR.  SACKVILLE,  (cheeringly.) 

Come,  come  ;  we  have  done  very  well.  We  have  arrived 
nearly  at  the  point,  where  you  said  we  were  to  descend ; 
though  by  another,  and  more  romantic  road. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Not  at  all,  sir.  I  meant  to  have  come  down  on  the  say- 
shore,  where  there  is  a  Martello  tower,  and  an  out-station  of 
police. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Well,  it  was  a  mistake,  certainly.  But  the  line  of  country 
is  new  to  me  ;  and  could  scarcely  be  seen  under  more  favour- 
able lights.  The  drifting  of  those  dense  clouds,  and  the 
struggles  of  that  young,  watery  moon  through  them,  change 
the  aspect  of  the  mountains  every  moment.  'Tis  quite  mag- 
nificent ! — the  scenery  of  Macbeth  !  How  nobly  that  ruined 
abbey  gains  on  us  as  we  advance  !  What  perfect  forms  !  It 
is  curious  that  so  extensive  a  monastery  should  have  been 
placed  in  so  wild  a  situation  !  In  general  the  monks  seem 
to  have  constituted  themselves  into  farming  societies,  and  to 
have  chosen  the  most  fertile  situations,  for  their  agricultural 
pursuits. 

12* 


128  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (bitterly,  but  gradually  cheering.) 

And  do  you  know,  sir,  Avliy  the  monks  of  Kilnailly  chose 
this  murdering  spot  ?  Because  they  were  Carthusians,  and 
never  touched  flesh-meat  ;  and  because  that  donny  little  lake 
produced  thin,  and  produces  to  this  day,  the  finest  black 
trout,  of  any  lake  in  the  country.  It's  often  the  late  Mr. 
Fitzgerald  Sackville  and  myself  spint  a  long  summer's  day 
here,  fishing  them  up,  from  the  size  of  a  pinkeen  to  twenty 
pounds  weight.  And  look,  Mr.  Sackville,  that  little  rivulet, 
that  sparkles  in  the  moonshine,  and  flows  ofT  the  lake,  under 
the  abbey  arch.  Well,  sir,  when  the  trout  would  refuse  the 
bait  or  fly  elsewhere,  it's  in  basketsful  we'd  catch  them,  just 
at  the  mouth  of  that  strame,  Avhere  the  monks  had  weirs, 
within  a  few  feet  of  their  own  kitchin.  Oh  !  they  knew 
what  they  were  about,   I'll  ingage. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

What  a  discovery  for  Clarence  Herbert  !  the  most  inveter- 
ate fisher,  since  the  immortal  Isaac  Walton.  I'll  have  a 
tent  piched  here,  and  a  cold  dinner  sent  out,  the  first  favour- 
able morning.  We'll  have  a  delightful  gipsey  party  !  Lady 
Emily  is  so  fond  of  a  gipsey  party  !  She  is  quite  a  child,  in 
her  young,  fresh  tastes. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (emphatically.) 

No,  sir,  you'd  better  not ;  the  place  is  changed  now.  I'd 
be  sorry  to  see  Lady  Emily  here,  by  night  or  by  day.  It  is 
|tio  place  for  her.  It  has  a  bad  name,  Mr.  Sackville.  The 
last  tithe-proctor  of  Mogherow,  (a  worthy  fellow,  and  father 
of  a  fine  family,)  was  murthered  under  that  very  window, 
you  admire  so  much.  It  was  autumn  twelvemonth,  about 
this  time,  sir.  He  was  taking  the  short  cut,  poor  man  !  as 
we  have  done  on  his  way  home  to  Mogherow,  when  the 
murderers  rushed  from  the  hills,  behind  the  abbey,  dragged 
him  to  the  ruins,  murdered  him,  and  threw  his  body  into  the 
lake,  where  it  was  food  for  the  trout,  many  a  day.  \Sighs 
convulsively. \ 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (with  horror.) 

Good  God  !  Is  every  scene  of  this  magnificent,  this  ro- 
mantic country,  to  be  the  historic  site  of  some  crime, — of 
some  atrocious  deed,  to  blunt  the  hopes,  and  darken  the  ima- 
gination of  Ireland's  best  friends  ! 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  129 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (looking  round  timidly.) 

Since  thin,  no  nobody  has  fished  in  the  little  lough  of  Kil- 
nailly.     But  wouldn't  you  like  to  step  into  the  gig,  sir? 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

We  had  better  walk  on  a  little  further,  until  we  get  into  a 
smoother  road.  From  the  aspect  of  Sleive-an-jaroin,  we  can- 
not be  very  far  from  the  neAV  lodge  of  Manor  Sackville. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

About  three  miles,  sir.  But  now,  sir,  that  you  have  open- 
ed a  new  drive  through  the  park,  on  the  mountain  side  of 
your  demesne,  and  that  you  are  building  that  iligent  fine 
gate,  Avhich,  Mr.  Cox  says,  is  the  grandest  ever  raised  in  the 
province,  I  hope  you  will  get  a  presentment  for  this  road. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

I  will  lay  down  one  at  my  own  expense  :  for  as  it  will  be 
an  accommodation  to  no  one  but  myself,  it  would  not  be  quite 
fair  to  lay  it  upon  the  county. 

MR,  GALBRAITH. 

As  you  plaze,  sir,  surely.  But  sure,  sir,  hasn't  every 
gintleman  a  road  round  his  demesne  wall,  (and  wherever  else 
may  shoot  his  convanience,)  presented  for  him  as  a  matter  of 
coorse  ?  But  \looking  round  him  anxiously^  it's  a  wonder  I 
don't  see  an  idaya  of  my  man,  Tim  Reynolds !  I  sint  him 
on  afore  us,  to  pick  up  a  little  party  of  police,  to  meet  us 
before  night-fall.     He  has  missed  us,  I  fear,  sir. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

You  did  very  wrong  to  part  with  him.  I  have  more  ap- 
prehension of  the  breaking  of  your  light  gig,  or  the  stumbling 
of  your  horse,  than  of  any  thing,  from  which  the  police  can 
save  us.  All  is  calm  here — silent  and  solitary,  even  to  deso- 
lation ;  save  only  those  shrill  gusts  from  the  mountain,  which 
sweep  down  through  the  glens,  with  such  melancholy,  but 
fine  effect.  We  are  safer  here,  Mr.  Galbraith,  than  in  your 
pet  colony  of  Sally  Noggin.  These  pauses  in  the  storm  are 
very  fine ! 


130  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


MR.  GALBRAITH. 


Why,  thin,  I'd  rather  hear  all  the  drums  in  the  province, 
bating  a  travaillee  about  my  ears,  this  blessed  moment,  than 
one  of  those  banshee  blasts.  The  Lord  bless  us  !  what  noise 
was  that  ?  Didn't  you  hear  a  whistle,  Mr.  Sackville,  from 
behind  the  kiln,  to  the  right  ?      Christ  preserve  us  !  Amen  ! 

[Fumbles  in  his  breast,  and  gets  to  the  other  side  of  the  horse,  to 
leave  his  right-hand  free.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (listening.) 

I  did  hear  something  through  that  blast.  I  believe  we 
have  flushed  some  curlews  among  the  heather — aye,  there 
they  go.  How  shrill  their  scream  is  repeated  by  the  moun- 
tain echoes  I  How  Emily  would  enjoy  this — I  almost  wish 
she  were  here  ! 

MR.  GALBRIATH. 

Lady  Emily  here,  sir  !  I'd  rather  see  a  stout  party  of  po- 
lice. I'd  take  my  oath,  I  heard  a  whistle,  again.  \_Li  ter- 
ror.']    Och  !   I  know  that  whistle  ! 

[They  walk  on  in  silence  ;  Galbraith  still  leading  his  horse  ;  Mr. 
Sackville  a  little  in  advance.  They  arrive  at  that  part  of  the  road, 
which  becomes  broader,  and  clearer;  and  at  a  spot,  exactly  be- 
tween the  ruins  and  the  kiln,  a  mass  of  vapours  clears  from  behind 
the  Abbey,  and  discovers  a  rugged  range  of  hills,  forming  the  back- 
ground. A  gothic  stone  cross  also  appears,  close  to  the  road  side, 
Mr.  Sackville  pauses  for  a  moment,  to  examine  it;  and  Mr.  Gal- 
braith to  pat  and  caress  his  panting  horse  ; — having  now  reached 
the  level.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 
This  is  a  curious  monument  ! 

[Mr.  Galbraith  starts,  and  increases  the  rapidity  of  his  movements.] 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

We  had  better  get  on,  sir — Look,  Mr.  Sackville !   Do  you 
see  nothing  under  the  Abbey  wall,  to  the  left  ? 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (in  an  encouraging  tone.) 

I  see  a  few  miserable  sheep  grazing  in  the  long  rank 
grass. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  l-Sl 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (trembling  excessively.) 

And  do  you  see  nothing  else,  sir  ?  I  would  advise  you  to 
get  into  the  gig. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (putting  up  his  glass.) 

Yes,  I  see  some  poor  wretch,  guarding  those  sheep,  and 
sheltering  himself  from  the  coming  storm,  under  the  arch- 
way.    What  a  dreary  station  ! 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (hurrying  on,  and  speaking  over  his  shoulder  to  Mr. 
Sackville,  who  is  now  in  the  rear.) 

Humph  !  you  had  better  get  into  the  gig,  sir. 

[The  figure  appears  to  move  forward.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 
Why,  Mr.  Galbraith,  you  are  haunted  by  imaginary  ter- 


MR.  GALBRAITH,  (fumbling  in  his  breast.) 

Who    goes   there?      \_I}i  a  low  voice]  Mr.   Sackville,  you 
have  your  pistols  about  you,  I  take  for  granted. 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (laughing.) 

What !  to  shoot  the  poor  shepherd,  and  his  sheep  ?     No, 
I  never  carried  arms  about  me,  in  my  life. 

[The  figure  clears  ihe  ruins,  and  springing  over  a  deep  dyke  on  the 
roadside,  follows  the  gentlemen.] 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (afl^cting  a  stout  manner.) 

Who  goes  there  !     Have  a  care,  friend — no  nearer,  if  you 
plaze  :  we  are  armed — pass  on. 

A  SULLEN  AND  DEEP  VOICE. 
You  had  better  pass  on  yourself,  Mr.  Galbraith. 

[Mr.  Galbraith,  keej)ing  his  right  hand  in  his  breast,  seizes  the  reins 
with  the  left.] 


133  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Och,  Shane  Sullivan  is  that  you  ?  {aside — I  know  him, 
Mr.  Sackville,  the  ruffian  !)  (aloud)  Is  that  you  Shane  dhu, 
my  man  ? 

SHANE  SULLIVAN,  (walks  abreast  the  gentlemen,  with  his  hands 
behind  his  coat.) 

It  is  Jerry  Galbraith  ! 

MR..GALBRAITH,  (in  a  soothing  accent.) 

What  are  you  doing  here  at  this  time  of  the  evening, 
Shane,  my  boy  ? 

SHANE,  (doggedly.) 

My  master's  business. — Every  man  to  his  calling.  What 
brings  yourself  here,  Mr.  Galbraith  ? 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Don't  be  offensive,  don't  be  offensive,  Shane  dhu :  take  a 
friend's  advice  now,  and  go  home.  There's  a  storm  arising  ; 
so  go  to  your  cabin,  man.     It's  time  for  you  to  be  at  home. 

SHANE. 

My  home  !  my  cabin  !  What  home  have  you,  and  your 
friend,  Mr.  Sampson,  left  me  Jerry  Galbraith  ? — Not  so 
much  as  a  shed  to  die  under  ;  nor  a  blanket  to  wrap  the  wife 
in,  that  ye  turned  into  the  high  road  ! 

MR.  GALBRAITH. 

Oh  Shane,  you  know  w^ell,  that  was  not  my  doing,  any 
how\  I  give  you  my  word,  Shane,  I'm  sorry  for  w^hat  has 
happened,  and  will  go  and  see  your  wife  and  bring  the  dis- 
pensary doctor  to  her,  to-morrow%  if  you'll  call  on  me  at 
Manor  Sackville. 

SHANE,  (with  fierce  bitterness.) 
See  her  !  yes,  you    will   meet   her  any  how,  afore  long, 


^. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  133 

sure  enough.     She  lies  there,   among  them  ruins,  in  holy- 
ground,  now.     The  sod's  green  that's  above  her. 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (with  a  loud  voice,  and  affected  carelessness.) 

Hem !  Mr.  Sackville ;  the  road  is  now  smooth  and  pass- 
able. If  you  plaze,  sir,  we'll  get  in  the  gig.  I  see  the 
lights  of  Manor  Sackville  quite  plain  now. 

[Shane  steps  forward,  and  pushes  himself  between  the  gentlemen. 
He  looks  earnestly  at  Mr.  Sackville,  who  returns  his  look  with 
composure  and  calmness.] 


SHANE. 

And  this  is  the  great  Squire  Sack^nlle,  is  it  ?  the  kino-  of 
the  country !  Troth  and  faith,  then,  Galbraith,  better  pur- 
tection  you  can't  travel  with.  I'd  advise  your  honour,  how- 
somedever,  to  drive  on  a  bit.  For  there  is  a  storm  coming 
down  the  mountain,  that  you  mayn't  like,  sir.  \_Signifi- 
cantly.l 

MR.  GALBRAITH,  (in  great  agitation.) 

Shane,  don't  forget  yourself  intirely.  I  see,  you've  the 
drop  in  you,  boy.  Remember  I'm  a  magistrate  and  chief 
constable. 

SHANE. 

Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  office,  Jerry 
Galbraith.  This  is  a  fine  time  and  a  great  place,  to  be  a 
magistrate  and  a  constable  in.  It  will  sarve  you  greatly 
now,  sir. — Mr.  Sackville,  I'll  throuble  you  to  step  an.  Take 
the  gig  and  drive  home  to  your  lady,  God  bless  her.  She 
has  the  blessing  of  the  poor  of  the  country  with  her.  Mr. 
Galbraith  and  I  have  an  ould  bit  of  a  reckoning  togither, 
and  the  fewer  witnesses  the  bether. 


MR.  SACKVILLE,  (firmly  but  mildly.) 

Sullivan,  you  must  be  a  brave  fellow,  for  you  are  an  Irish- 
man, and  your's  is  not  the  country  of  cowardice.  But  it  is 
the  act  of  a  coward,  of  the  basest  of  cowards,  to  waylay  an 
unprotected  man  ;  and  it  is  the  act  of  a  fool,  for  purposes  of 
hellish  vengeance, — in  requital  of  supposed,  or  real  wrongs, 


134  MANOR  SACKVILLE. 

to  commit  a  crime,  which  forfeits  your  life,  to  the  laws  of 
your  country  in  this  world,  and,  according  to  the  religion 
you  profess,  loses  you  for  ever,  in  the  world  to  come. 

SHANE,  (furiously.) 

My  country  ! — a  country  to  starve  and  perish  in  !  What 
laws  are  there  for  me  ;  if,  when  labouring  to  support  a  wife 
and  five  children,  out  of  sixpence  a  day,  paid  me  by  that 
land-shark  there,  for  twelve  hours'  work,  I  was  unable  to 
pay  him  his  rint !  and  when  I  saw  my  wife  turned  to  die  on 
the  road,  and  my  childer  driven  for  shelter  to  that  ould  kiln  ? 
— Forfeit  my  life  !  Oh  !  Mr.  Sackville,  is  it  joking  you  are? 
Why  thin,  it's  a  great  forfeit,  surely  ;  and  long  ago,  I  would 
hav(?  forfeited  it  by  the  murther  of  that  villian  there,  and 
other  villians  like  him ;  only  that  I  should  live  to  earn  the 
childer  their  potatie.     But  it's  a  folly  to  talk,  Mr.  Sackville 

move  an,  if  you  plaze — I'm  not  a  murtherer,  Mr.  Sackville, 

but  I'm  a  man,  God  help  me  ! — and  so,  there's  no  murther 
in  the  case.  But  look  ye,  sir.  The  last  of  my  childer  lies 
dead  of  the  typhus,  in  that  kiln,  without  so  much  as  a  candle 
to  wake  her  with :  but  I've  frinds  and  cronies  at  hand,  to 
wake  her  grandly  before  the  moon  sets,  behind  Sleive-na- 
jaroin,  there  :  so,  sir,  there's  no  time  to  lose  in  parley. 

[Sullivan  draws  a  blunderbuss  from  under  his  coat — Galbraith  stands 
aghast.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (in  great  emotion.) 

Sullivan  !  for  God's  sake  ;  for  your  own,  for  mine — I 
cannot,  will  not,  stand  by  and  see  a  fellow-creature  mur- 
dered !  If  money,  if  employment,  and  protection  .  .  .  Speak  ! 
what  will  satisfy  you  ? 

SULLIVAN,  (passing  his  arm  through  Mr.  Sackville's  and  leading  him 
on  a  little.) 

It's  too  late,  sir — what's  money  to  me  ?  The  mother,  the 
wife,  the  childer,  are  all  there  !  [Pointing  to  the  rui?is,  with, 
a  wild  laugh.]  Och  !  there's  that,  far  sweeter  now  than 
mon^y,  Misther  Sackville  ! — but,  naboclish  move  an,  sir, — 
there's  the  horse  and  gig,  and  the  lights  of  Manor  Sackville 
dancing  before  ye,  and  a  fine  house,  and  a  fine  wife  waiting 
for  you,  and  ....  Ha  !  A  pistol-shot  is  fired  close  to  his 
ear.     He  catches  hold  of  Mr.  SackvilWs  arm.]     Well  done, 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  135 

Galbraith,  you  murthering  traitor  ! — but  you  are  in  the  toils. 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !— 

[Drops  his  blunderbuss,  which  goes  off.  A  shrill  whistle  is  heard. 
The  blast  of  many  horns  responds  to  the  echo  of  the  gun.  Gal- 
braith springs  into  his  gig,  and  endeavours  to  disentangle  the  reins. 
Mr.  Sackville  is  dragged  to  the  earth  by  the  murdered  man,  who 
grasps  him  fast ;  but  forgetful  of  himself,  he  endeavours  to  raise 
Sullivan,  and  to  staunch  his  blood,  that  flows  in  torrents  from  his 
wound.  A  rush  of  men,  from  the  ruins  and  lime-kiln,  now  pours 
upon  the  spot.  Galbraith  is  seized.  The  fierce,  wild  multitude, 
armed  in  various  ways,  surround  the  dying  man.  A  shrill  cry  is 
set  up  of"  Down  with  the  Sassenach  .'" — "  To  the  lake  with  the  land- 
shark  ."'— "  Doicn  with  Galbraith  .'"  Cornelius  Brian,  a  man  of 
gigantic  stature,  and  the  leader  of  the  party,  stalks  forward.] 

CORNELIUS  BRIAN. 

Halt,  I  say,  and  pace.  [They  draiv  up  deferentially.] 
Let  no  man  spake  a  word,  nor  raise  an  hand,  till  Shane  Dhu 
Sullivan  has  said  his  last  say.  Honor,  my  vourneen,  Pll 
take  that  musket  from  ye,  now ;  and  take  this  pike  yourself. 
You  may  want  it  before  moon  set. 

[Honor,  (a  tall,  powerful  woman,  with  long,  dark,  streaming  hair,) 
exchanges  arms  with  her  husband.  Meantime,  Dan  O'Leary  with- 
draws Sullivan  from  Mr.  Sackville's  support,  and  holds  him  in  his 
arms,  while  two  fierce-looking  men,  at  a  movement  from  Brian, 
seize  Mr.  Sackville.  Honor  kneels  down,  and  presents  a  wooden 
crucifix,  suspended  from  her  neck,  to  Sullivan's  lips,  but  they 
move  not.     His  eyes  are  turned  towards  the  kiln.] 

DARBY  O'LOUGHLIN,  (leaning  on  his  pike,  and  looking  mournfully 
at  SulHvan.) 

There's  no  use  in  waiting ;  Shane  Dhu's  gone — so  up,  and 
to  work,  boys,  you  know  well,  there's  no  time  to  lose,  and 
all's  ready.  The  Polls  is  on  the  shaughran,  and  th'  army 
will  soon  get  the  word. 

PAT  DORAN. 

O'Loughlin's  right — Avhat  use  in  talk?  Down  with  the 
English  traitor  ;  and  this  for  his  man  Jack.  [Takes  aim  at 
Galbraith,  who  raises  a  shriek.  Cornelius  Brian  strikes  up 
the  gun,  which  goes  off  in  the  air.'] 

CORNELIUS  BRIAN,  (savagely,  and  in  a  commanding  voice.) 

By  him  that  made  and  saved  me,  the  first  of  yez  that 
moves  a  finger,  till  yez  have  your  orders,  from  me,  or  only 

13 


136  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

touches  an  heir  of  the  Sassenach's  head,  till  Sullivan  spakes, 
is  a  dead  man.  What  call  have  you  to  him,  Pat  Doran  ? 
Did  he  dacaive  you  ?  Kill  a  Sassenach  for  yourself,  and  lave 
me  my  own.  His  blood  be  on  my  head,  as  mine  is,  or  would 
have  been,  on  his — but  for  God's  providence.  And  now, 
make  way,  boys  :  give  a  little  air  to  Shane  Dhu  ;  see  hovv^ 
he  gasps  ;  but  he  is  as  good  as  two  dead  men,  yet.  What 
bloody  rag  is  that  round  his  throat  ? 

DAN  O'LEARY. 
'Tis  the  gintleman's  handkerchief,   I  suppose. 

[Draws  it  off)  and  Honor  snatches  it.] 

CORN.  BRIAN. 

Give  it  to  me.  Honor.  {He  holds  it  up.]  Look,  boys  ; 
this  is  the  flag  of  the  night.  It's  dyed  with  the  blood  of  the 
truest  poor  boy,  that  iver  was  hunted  to  ruin.  Sullivan,  my 
man  [sloops  over  him,]  what's  your  last  will  and  wish  ? 
Spake,  if  ye  can  ;  and  it  shall  be  done.  Name  who  has 
murdered  you,  Shane  Dhu  Machree.  Don't  let  us  shed  in- 
nocent, blood,  any  how  ;  but  let  justice  be  done — who  is  the 
murtherer  ? 

SEVERAL  VOICES. 

Aye,  aye — who  is  the  murtherer  ? 

[Sullivan  opens  his  eyes,  and  looks  anxiously  round  ;  makes  a  con- 
vulsive elfurt  to  spe'ak  ;  and  then  with  a  hoarse  and  rattling  voice, 
nanies  Galbraith,  and  dies.  Several  shots  are  fired.  Galbraith 
falls  lifeless  at  the  bottom  of  his  gig.  A  shower  of  stones  is  flung 
at  the  body.  The  horse  takes  fright,  and  runs  off,  taking  the  road 
to  Manor  Sackville.  During  the  transaction,  Brian  withdraws  Mr. 
Sackville  from  his  keepers  and  seizes  him  firmly  in  the  iron  grasp 
of  his  left  hand  ;  while  he  holds  his  musket  with  his  right.] 

PAT  DORAN. 

Corney  Brian,  there  is  great  work  to  be  done  yet.  And 
what  use  of  dragging  the  Boddah  Sassenach,*  afther  us  ? 
You're  sworn,  Corney.  Down  with  him,  and  away.  It's 
well  known  that  he's  a  raal  traitor.  Mr.  M'Dermot  said  so, 
at  the  fair  of  Sally  Noggin  ;  and  tould  the  boys  of  Kilcash- 
meeting,  that  he  is  no  thrue  friend  to  Ireland. 

*  English  churl. 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  137 


CORN.  BRIAN,  (grimly.) 

I  know  bether  what  he  is  than  you,  Pat  Doran,  or  Mr. 
M'Dermot  either.  But  if  he  were  the  divil  from  hell,  he's 
mine.  So  Pat  Doran,  up  with  your  own  men  to  the  kiln ; 
and  you,  Mich.  Gaffney.  Kelly  and  Delaney,  down  to  the 
heather  with  you.  The  party  will  soon  be  here,  that  was  to 
purtect  Squire  Galbraith  and  his  honour.  Padreen  did  his 
message  well,  Pll  ingage,  as  well  as  Mr.  Tim  Reynolds 
would,  for  the  life  of  him ;  and  sorrow  the  message  that 
murthuring  informer  will  ever  go  agin.  Now,  boys,  to  your 
posts.  I  think  I  hear  the  trot  of  a  horse  ;  and  there's  a  dust 
rising  on  the  road.  Here,  James  Dolan ;  give  us  an  helping 
hand  with  Mr.  Sackviile. — Gintlemin's  not  used  to  leap 
dikes  by  moonlight,  Pll  ingage.  [Dolan  seizes  Mr.  Sack- 
rille's  left  shoulder.]  Honor,  you'll  guard  the  rare,  my 
vourneen.  I'll  just  step  over  the  way  to  show  O'Rouke's 
altar  to  my  frind  and  purtector,  here  ; — who  got  me  my  re- 
praive  the  day  afther  I  was  hanged,  and  ped  me  a  visit  in 
the  black  cell,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  traison  in  his  heart. 
Now,  my  boys,  to  your  bushes.  Pll  be  back  in  a  gifFy — 
sorrow  long,  Pm  iver  about  a  job,  that  my  heart's  in.  Take 
off  Sullivan's  body  to  the  kiln.     Pace  to  his  sowl ! 

[A  pause  j  the  men  take  off  their  hats,  and  cross  themselves.] 

BRIAN,  (in  a  low  and  feeling  voice.) 

We'll  wake  him  to-night  with  his  child.  We  may  have 
more  to  carry  with  thim  to  th'  abbey  before  our  work  is 
done. 

[The  men  depart  silently  to  their  several  posts,  following,  bare- 
headed, for  a  short  distance,  the  body  of  Sullivan,  which  is  borne 
away  by  Dan  O'Leary  and  Darby  O'Loughlin.  Meantime,  Corney 
Brian  and  James  Dolan  drag  Mr.  Sackviile  along  with  great  vio- 
lence and  rapidity.  They  are  closely  followed  by  Honor,  who,  at 
every  halt,  or  attempt  to  speak  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Sackviile,  pushes 
him  on  with  her  pike.  They  drag  him  over  the  dike,  and  along  the 
banks  of  the  lake,  towards  the  ruins  of  Kilnailly.] 

CORN.  BRIAN,  (halting.) 

Whuisht — I  hear  the  sound  of  horse's  feet.  Here,  Dolan, 
take  this  bloody  handkerchief,  and  off  with  you,  across  the 
ruins  there,  to  the  scout-post,  near  the  stone  of  Kilcash, 
Give  it  to  Shamus  Brian,  my  brother  who  is  on  the  look- 


138  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

out.     Tell  him  the  pass-word  is  Manor  Sackville — and  my 
hid-quarters  for  the  night,  the  abbey  of  Kilnailly. 

[Dolan  resigns  his  post  to  Honor,  whose  grasp  is  not  less  fixed  and 
firm  than  his  own.  He  bounds  along  with  the  celerity  of  a  hound, 
on  his  mysterious  mission,  and  is  soon  out  of  sight.  Brian,  Honor, 
and  Mr.  Sackville  move  on  with  a  more  deliberate  and  steady  pace. 
Mr.  Sackville  shows  great  nerve  and  presence  of  mind.  He  is 
aware,  that  whatever  are  the  intentions  of  Brian,  all  resistance  is 
fruitless  ;  and  his  last  hope  reposes  on  moral  influence.  He  binds 
up  every  corporeal  faculty  to  meet  with  fortitude  the  awful  event, 
which  now  appears  almost  inevitable.  The  Brians  proceed  in  si- 
lence, diverging  from  the  lake  ;  and  plunge  with  their  victim,  into 
the  most  gloomy  part  of  the  ruins.] 


END  OF  VOL.  I. 


DRAMATIC    SCENES 


FROM 


REAL   LIFE. 


BY    LADY    MORGAN. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 


VOL   II. 


NEW-YORK: 

PRINTED  AND  PUBLISHED  BY  J.  <fc  J.  HARPER, 

No.  82  ClifT-street, 

AND    SOLD    BY    THE    BOOKSELLERS    GENERALLY    THROUGHOUT 
THE    UNITED    STATES. 

1833.  ' 


m^ 


MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


SCENE  IX. 


[The  cloistersofKilnailly,  which  are  still  in  fine  preservation,  and  are 
nearly  roofed  by  the  spreading  branches  of  a  tall  yew-tree,  and  a 
net-work  of  ivy  and  other  creeping  plants.  A  faint  ray  of  moon- 
light falls  through  the  green  roof,  upon  an  high,  rnde  altar-tomb  in 
the  choir.  The  Brians  are  seen  dragging  in  Mr.  Sackville  over 
fallen  clamps  of  the  ruins.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (stumbling  over  a  new-made  grave.) 

Do  not  drag-  me  with  such  violence;  I  will  accompany 
you  where  you  will,  without  further  resistance.  I  now  see 
too  well  that  all  resistance  is  in  vain  ;  I  am  wholly  in 
your  power.  All  I  beg,  all  I  beseech  is,  to  be  allowed  to 
address  a  few  words  to  you,  Cornelius  Brian,  and  to  you, 
Honor.  You,  at  least,  Honor,  will  not  refuse  to  hear  a 
husband  and  a  father. — [She  turns  away  her  head.  Mr. 
Sackville  continues  with  uncontrollabh  motion.^ — Woman — 
wife — mother  .... 

[He  pauses.] 

BRIAN. 

Come,  sir,  no  palaver.  Women  are  wake, — aye,  the 
strongest  of  them,  when  talked  to  that  a  way. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

What  have  you  to  fear  from  me  ?  You  are  both  armed 
and  powerful ;  I  cannot  escape,  if  you  aim  at  my  life ;  for  I 
well  know  that  all  paltry  sordid  views  are  far  below  the  spirit 
of  your  vengeance,  your  ill-directed,  your  mistaken  venge- 
ance.    At  least,  then,  give  me  a  moment  to  say  a  few  words. 


iMANOR    SACKVILLE, 


to  enter  on  an  explanation  in  which  you,  Brian,  are  deeply 
concerned  ;  and  then,  one  moment — [His  voice  falters^ — for 
my  wife,  my  child — I  beg  it. 

[They  halt  opposite  the  stone  altar.     The  moonlight  which  falls  on 
it,  shows  it  to  be  stained  with  blojd.] 


BRIAN,  (in  an  agitated  voice.) 

Mr.  Sackville,  I'd  give  my  own  poor  life  to  believe  that 
you  are  not  a  traitor,  and  the  worst  of  traitors.  Look — look 
at  that  old  althar,  sir.  It  has  been  called,  time  immemorial, 
the  traitor's  stone.  But  that  is  a  long  story ;  and  many  a 
bloody  traitor  did  penance  on  that  althar,  Mr.  Sackville;  the 
last  not  more  than  an  hour  back,  one  Tim  Reynolds,  a  noto- 
rious informer  in  the  service  of  the  magistrate  Galbraith, 
whose  blood  is  on  the  bushes  there.  We  did  his  commission 
for  him  ;  and  there  he  lies,  behind  Oonah's  new-made  grave. 
Now,  Mr.  Sackville,  he  was  a  poor  ignorant  mania],  and  a 
villain  born.  But  what  would  you  think,  sir,  of  a  gintleman, 
and  the  greatest  and  richest  of  gintlemin,  one  that  did  every 
thing,  Mr.  Sackville,  in  a  grand  style  ;  not  one  mane  dirty 
trick  in  him  ;  but  all  grand  and  great,  and  winning  the  hearts 
of  the  country,  so  that  not  a  boy  in  the  barony  but  was  ready 
to  surrender  him  his  arms,  aye,  or  his  life,  if  it  would  sarve 
him.  And  what  do  you  think,  sir,  of  this  che  shin  of  a  gintle- 
man, coming  to  the  condemned  cell,  sir,  of  a  convicted  cratur, 
innocently  convicted  of  the  charge  laid  to  him,  by  that  very 
Tim  Reynolds  ?  The  gintleman  worming  his  little  saicrets 
out  of  him,  and  previnting  him  making  his  escape,  which 
he  could  do,  with  the  help  of  that  poor  woman,  there,  (and 
did,  praise  God  !)  and  promising  him  a  pardon  from  the  Lord- 
Lieutenant  ;  and  when  he  had  done  all  this,  with  the  face  of 
of  an  angel — selling  him  to  the  dirty  spalpeen  magistrates 
and  orange-men,  who  thirsted  for  his  blood  ;  and  so  driv  him 
once  more  to  the  mountains.  Now,  Mr.  Sackville,  if  you 
were  to  choose  a  place  to  settle  a  little  business  with  such  a 
great  gintleman  as  that,  what  fitter  could  you  take  him  to, 
than  this  ould  stone  althar,  with  the  bones  of  a  traitor  below, 
and  the  blood  of  a  perjured  informer  above  ? 

HONOR,  (shaking  back  her  dark  locks,  and  looking  fiercely  at  Sack- 
ville.) 

It's  thrue  for  him  ;  and  if  my  childer  have  a  father  this 


MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


night,  no  thanks  to  you  :  for  you  sould  us,  you  and  your  fine 
lady,  intirely.     Ye  raal  deceiver.     [She  raises  her  pike.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (putting  back  her  arms.) 

One  moment,  in  the  name  of  God.  On  whose  authority 
do  you  speak  ?  Who  told  you  that  I  betrayed  you  ?  How 
do  you  know  that  I  sold  you  ? 

BRIAN,  (furiously.) 

Every  how.  Mr.  M'Dermot,  a  thrue  pathriot,  knew  it. 
Mr.  M'Gab,  Sub-sheriff  Jones's  clerk,  had  a  hint  of  it ;  and 
Honor,  here,  who  was  scouring  the  country,  heard  it,  both 
from  Orang'e  and  Green. 


MR.  SACKVILLE,  (solemnly.) 

As  I  hope  for  salvation,  'tis  all  false  !  There  is  not  one 
word  of  truth  in  the  black  and  infamous  calumny,  invented 
by  your  enemies  and  mine. 


BRIAN,  (in  an  undecided  tone.) 

I  want  to  take  no  man's  life  without  a  raison ;  'bove  all  a 
benefactor's,  if  such  there  be  in  the  wide  world.  But  where 
was  the  repraive,  sir, — where  was  the  pardon  ?  The  day 
came  on,  the  gallows  was  getting  ready,  and  you  prevented 
my  escape:  [puts  his  hands  to  his  eyes:]  but  the  pardon 
never  came.  [After  a  moment's  pause.]  There  is  no  time 
to  lose,  [raises  his  musket^]  so  now  a  prayer  to  God  that 
made  you,  and  a  word  for  the  woman  that  owns  you.    Honor 

will  take  that ;  and  then [hesitatingly,  Mr.  Sackville 

draws  up.]  For  I'm  bound,  sir.  There's  thim  in  the  hea- 
ther and  thim  in  the  kiln  that  waits  to  hear  the  voice  of  this 
little  piece  from  the  mountain  echoes.  I  am  book  sworn, 
Mr.  Sackville, — die  you  must,  now,  and  here. 


MR.  SACKVILLE,  (in  suppressed  agony.) 

Great  God !  great  God  !    and  in  the  view  too  of  my  own 
home  ! 


6  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

BRIAN,  (furiously.) 

Had  I  been  hung  at  the  new  jail,  Mr.  Sackville,  it  would 
have  been  within  view  of  the  blue  smoke  of  my  own  cabin, 
and  innocently  too ;  for  I  decaived  no  man.  I  was  bad 
enough,  Christ  pardon  me,  but  I  was  no  traitor.  You  bid 
me  not  move  a  step,  for  my  pardon  should  come.  Honor's 
eyes,  there,  strained  blood  looking  for  it  from  the  high  places  ; 
but  the  pardon  niver  came.  Had  I  oncet  seen  it,  though  I 
was  to  have  been  hung  the  day  afiher 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (with  a  flash  of  sudden  recollection.) 

The  pardon  !  seen  it  !  Great  God  !  If  that  will  do  ! — 
[draics  out  the  jjaper  from  his  bosom.'\  Here,  here, — here  is 
the  pardon.  See,  you  can  see  by  this  light  the  seal.  It  was 
sent  to  Sir  Job  three  days  back,  but  was  detained  in  his  office. 
It  was  on  that  account  that,  contrary  to  many  warnings  not 
to  leave  my  own  home,  I  went  to  Sir  Job's  this  morning. 
There  is  the  pardon  ;  and  here.  Honor,  this  was  for  you  from 
my  wife.  It  contains  money  to  take  you  and  your  husband 
to  America,  if  you  did  not  prefer  to  come  and  work  at  Manor 
Sackville. 

[Honor  seizes  and  opens  the  pocket :  it  contains  bank-notes.  Brian 
opens  the  pardon.  His  musket  drops  on  ihe  stone  pavement,  and 
goes  off^  with  endless  echoes.  He  fails  at  Mr.  Sackville's  feet. 
Honor  drops  her  pike,  throws  her  arms  around  him,  and  holds  him 
in  silent  emotion.] 

BRIAN,  (in  great  agitation.) 

My  heart  misgave  me  all  along.   I  thought,  with  that  face, 

and  that  voice,  like  music I  could  not  bring  myself 

to  shed  your  blessed  blood — I  hoped — I  waited — I 

Och  !— 

[Buries  his  face  in  his  hands  for  a  moment,  and  sobs — a  rush — 
a  cry — a  discharge  of  muskets — Honor  and  Brian  start  up  and 
seize  their  arms.] 

BRIAN. 

Whisht !  they  are  at  it  above,  there — I  am  wanted.  By 
this  time,  sir,  the  news  has  reached  Manor  Sackkville.  Dead, 
or  alive,  I  meant  that  handkerchief  as  a  signal  to  your  wife  ; 


MANOR   SACKVILLE.  7 

for  I  thought  of  Honor.     And  now,  sir,  away,  straight  for- 
ward along  the  dike. 

MR:  SACKVILLE.  (faintly.) 

My  poor  Emily  !  But  how  shall  I  escape  ?  which  is  my 
road  ? 

BRIAN. 

Honor,  lade  him  off  towards  Kilcash.  He  isn't  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  mountain-gate  of  Manor  Sackville, — away, 
sir, — off  with  yez. 

HONOR,  (anxiously.) 

And  you,  Cornelius,  osthore.  Are  you  going  to  thim 
above?     Sure  you  had  better  not. 

BRIAN. 

Niver  mind  me — off  and  away  with  Mr.  Sackville.  I'll 
be  convaniant  to  the  dike-cut. 

[Brian  puts  up  the  pardon,  and  turns  off  towards  the  road.  Honor 
runs  over  the  Abbey  ruins,  followed  by  Mr.  Sackville.  On  turning 
an  angle,  they  get  into  a  road,  which  is  the  continuation  of  that 
taken  by  Mr.  Galbraith  and  Mr.  Sackville,  on  their  descent  from 
the  mountain.] 


HONOR,  (breathless  and  impatiently.) 

There,  sir !    straight   afore  you.    There  are  the  lights   in 
your  lodge.     Jasus  and  his  holy  mother  protect  you  ! 

[She  springs  into  the  dike,  and  running  along  under  the  shelter  it 
affords,  returns  to  the  scene  of  action.  Firing  is  heard.  Mr.  Sack- 
ville hurries  forward  -  but  hearing  the  tramp  of  horses'  feet,  he 
looks  back  and  pauses.  Clouds  of  smoke  arise.  Reiterated  shouts 
are  heard.  A  crowd  of  fighting  and  flying  men  pursue  the  road  he 
has  taken,  and  pass  before  the  tree  under  which  he  has  sheltered. 
He  pushes  on, — the  hights  of  Manor  Sackville  become  more  dis- 
tinctly visible.  Horsemen  and  a  chaise  and  four  approach  at  full 
gallop,  from  the  Manor  Sackville  side.  Mr.  Sackville  sprmgs  for- 
ward, and  sees  Lady  Emily  hanging  out  of  the  carriage  window. 
A  loud,  long  scream  announces  her  recognition  of  him.  She  bursts 
open  the  door,  and  falls  lifeless  into  his  arms.  Mr.  Sackville  re- 
places her  in  the  carriage,  and  supports  her.  Captain  Herbert 
places  a  party  of  men  as  an  escort,  and  orders  the  postilions  to  turn. 
A  crowd  pass  by,  flying;  and  are  pursued  by  the  mountain  police, 
who  are  joined  by  a  few  of  the  military. 


8  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

SERJEANT  DONOVAN,  (riding  up  to  Captain  Herbert.) 

The  field  is  our  own,  plaze  your  hononr.  But  plaze  to 
send  some  of  your  men,  captain,  to  the  abbey  of  Kilnailley. 
There  are  a  posse  of  prisoners  there  ;  and  our  men  are  vrell 
peppered  themselves,  and  won't  be  able  to  keep  them  quiet 
long. 

[Captain  Herbert  gives  the  order.  The  carriage  moves  on.  After 
an  interval,  Captain  Herbert  overtakes  it,  and  rides  along,  with 
his  hand  on  the  open  window.] 

CAPTAIN  HERBERT. 

Sackville,  my  dear  fellow,  are  you   safe?     You  are  not 
wounded — not  hurt ! 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 
No,  I  am  quite  well ;  quite  safe. 

CAPTAIN  HERBERT. 

Great   God  !     What  a  night  ! — what  an   escape !     Does 
Emily  revive  ? 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Yes,  yes  !  All  will  be  well  now.    [Lady  Emily'' s  sobs  are 

distinctly  heard.]     But  how  did   she  hear  of  this  ?     How 
_i 1 t 


comes  she  here? 


CAPTAIN  HERBERT. 


There  was  some  rumour  of  a  meeting  of  Whitefeet  in  the 
mountains,  and  a  rising  for  to-night.  I  was  ordered  out ; 
and  passing  the  gates  of  Manor  Sackville,  I  turned  in  for  a 
moment.  Julia  told  me  that  Lady  Emily  had  been  waiting 
for  you  at  the  new  lodge  in  great  anxiety.  She  was  the  first 
to  see  the  gig,  and  mangled  body  of  Galbraith  ;  for  the  horse, 
from  habit,  stopped  at  the  gate.  She  would  go  in  search  of 
you,  herself;  the  carriage  was  ordered  unknown  to  Julia.  I 
overtook  her  ;  and  on  our  way,  a  wretched  boy  presented  her 
with  a  bloody  handkerehief,  and  bade  her  go  to  you  at  the 
abbey  of  Kilnailly. 


MANOR  SACKVILLE. 


MR.  SACKVILLE,  (pressing  his  wife  in  his  arms,  who  weeps  in  his 
bosom.) 

Gracious  God,  what  horrors  ! 


CAPTAIN  HERBERT. 

Well,  dear  Sackville,  I  must  be  off.    You  are  now  so  near 
the  house,  that  you  want  no  further  escort.     God  bless  you  ! 

[Places  himself  at  the  head  of  his  men,  and  gallops  back.     The  car- 
riage turns  into  the  gate  of  Manor  Sackville.] 


14 


10  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


SCENE  X. 


[A  small  and  elegant  library,  in  a  picturesque  villa,  of  Elizabethan 
architecture,  situated  in  or.e  of  the  most  beautiful  spots  cf  the 
Regent's  Park.  A  stone  balcony,  filled  with  odoriferous  plants, 
descends  from  a  large  casement  by  a  flight  of  steps  into  a  lawn, 
richly  tufted  with  flowering  shrubs,  and  intersected  by  a  small  lake 
of  transparent  water,  covered  with  foreign  and  domestic  aquatic 
fowl.  A  few  sheep  graze  on  its  velvet  bank.  The  trees  of  St. 
John's  Wood,  form  the  back-ground  and  are  outlined  on  the  morn- 
ing horizon.  Thick  plantations  form  the  inclosure  of  this  tiney 
Eden,  which  seems  to  bloom  in  tranquil  loveliness,  "  beyond  the 
reach  and  busy  hum  of  men."  In  the  large  open  casement  Mr. 
AND  Lady  Emily  Sackville  are  seated  at  breakfast.  Timur  lies 
in  front  of  his  master,  basking  in  the  sunshine.  At  Lad}'  Emily's 
feet  a  beautiful  littlk  boy  of  three  years  old  is  rolling  on  the  car- 
pet with  Bijou.  A  Fkekch  bonxe  is  in  waiting.  Mr.  Sackville 
and  Lady  Emily  are  deeply  engaged  with  the  morning-papers, 
which  lie  in  piles  on  an  adjoining  gueridon.  The  time  is  several 
months  after  that  of  the  last  scene,  and  in  the  spring  of  the  suc- 
ceeding year.]  -,^ 


THE  BONNE,  (endeavouring  to  carry  off  the  little  boy,  who  is  creeping 
up  Lady  Emily's  knee.) 

Viens  done,  mon  petit  amour.  Nous  allons  voir  les 
agneaux,  n'est-ce  pas,  Henri  ? 

THE  BOY,  (struggling  to  get  into  his  mother's  arms.) 
Mamma  I 

LADY  EMILY,  (snatching  him  up,  and  kissing  him.) 

Mamma's  love.  But  Henry  will  let  mamma  take  her 
breakfast,  and  read  her  paper.  [She  throws  him  on  a  cushion 
at  her  feet.']  Laissez  le  done,  Celestine.  [Nods  her  off. 
Exit  the  Bonne.]  There, — there  are  sweet  flowers  for 
Henry  to  make  nosega^^s  for  mamma.  [She  flings  a  little 
basket  of  flowers  over  hi?n,  with  which  he  amuses  himself. 
Lady  Emily  takes  up  the  Court  Journal,  reads  and  laughs.] 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  11 

LADY  EMILY. 

How  very  droll !  How  all  things  tell  in  print,  that  happen 
to  be  nothing  at  all,  in  fact  !  Co  aid  any  thing  be  more 
modeste  than  poor  dear  Julie  and  Clarence  Herbert's  wed- 
ding ;  and  yet  here  it  is  described  like  a  royal  marriage — 
Troupeau,  sultanc,  guirlande  de  fieurs  d^orange,  et  blonde  ; 
and  then  a  Brussels  lace  roht-denocc^  over  rich  white  satin, 
with  ruby  clasps — {far  parentJi^sc,  your  present  of  the 
agraffe.)  And  only  listen  now,  Henry.  \^Reads.'\  "  After 
the  dejeune  given  by  Mr.  and  Lady  Emily  Lumley  Sackville 
in  Grosvenor  Square,  to  a  numerous  and  distinguished  party, 
the  happy  pair  set  out  in  a  chariot  and  four,  one  of  Leader's 
neatest  turns  out,  for  Woodlawn.  Lady  Emily  and  Mr.  S., 
accompanied  by  a  select  party,  drove  to  her  ladyship's  Eliza- 
bethan villa  in  the  Regent's  Park,  where,  it  is  said,  she 
intends  giving  a  series  of  dejeunes  and  morning  fetes,  which 
are  to  rival  the  Arabian  Nights  Entertainments  of  her  noble 
neighbour  in  his  Alhambra.     "VVe  hear  also  that"  .  .   . 


MR.  SACKVILLE,  (interrupting  her  impatiently,  and  in  some  emotion.) 

Dear  Emil^^ — cannot  you  read  pII  that  nonsense  to  your- 
self, if  it  amuses  you  ;  and  not  tease  and  interrupt  me  with  it. 


LADY  EMILY. 

You  are  so  peevish  sometimes,  Henry,  of  late ;  particu- 
larly since  your  last  visit  to  Ireland.  I  am  quite  sure  you 
think  no  v.",  that  I  really  want  to  give  these  dejeunes. 


IVIR.  SACKVILLE,  (sighing  deeply,  and  without  taking  his  eyes  from 
the  paper.) 

C4ive  Vv'hat  you  like,  love ;  only,  pray,  let  me  finish  what 
I  am  reading. 

LADY  EMILY,  (looking  up,  and,  struck  by  the  agitation  of  his  coun- 
tenance, she^rops  her  papjr.) 

Dear  Harry,  vv^hat  is  the  matter  ? — Good  heavens  !   has 
has  any  thing  happened  to  Juli^ — to  Clarence  ? 

[She  starts  up,  and  reads  over  his  shoulder.] 


13  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

No,  no,  indeed ;  I  am  only  reading  an  Irish  paper.    Don't 
read  it,  love  ;  take  up  your  Court  Journal. 

[She  still  reads  eagerly  over  his  shoulder.  Mr.  Sackville  sighing 
deeply.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

It  is  a  frightful  accounf  of  the  trial  and  execution  of  the 
unfortunate  Cornelias  and  Honor  Brian. 

[Lady  Emily's  tears  drop  fast  upon  the  paper,  as  she  continues  to 
read.  She  at  last  throws  herself  on  her  husband's  neck,  with  a 
convulsive  sob.  He  drops  the  paper,  and  taking  her  in  his  arms, 
mingles  his  tears  with  hers.] 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

It  is  fearfully  affecting — What  a  parting  scene ! — Gracious 
heavens,  that  habits  so  wild,  so  savage,  should  be  mingled 
with  feelings  so  profound  !  I  cannot  reconcile  facts  that  are 
so  apparently  at  variance.  Where  was  all  this  sensibility, 
when  the  crime  for  which  they  suffered  was  committed? 

LADY  EMILY. 

The  bringing  them  their  infant  child  was  no  indulgence, 
as  those  wretches  called  it — it  w^as  a  cruelty.  I  cannot  yet 
believe  but  they  might  have  been  saved,  if  you  had  memoria- 
lized the  Lord  Lieutenant. 

[She  still  weeps ;  while  the  little  boy,  struck  by  her  tears,  runs  to  her.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Quite  impossible.  The  outrage  was  too  violent,  the  num- 
ber of  lives  lost  too  g^reat. 


LADY  EMILY. 

Yet  was  it  not  all  that  horrid  Jones's  fault  ?  Had  he  done 
his  duty,  instead  of  persecuting^the  Brians  so  unmercifully, 
they  would  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  that  dreadful  night. 

9 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 
That  is  all  very  true,  and  a  tremendous  aggravation  it  is 


MAXOIl    SACKVILLE. 

I 

of  that  man's  guilt.  But  still  the  Brians'  ofience  was  a  bar- 
barous and  bloody  deed  ;  and  had  they  been  pardoned,  there 
would  have  been  no  safety  for  any  man  or  -woman  in  the 
neighbouring-  counties.  The  temptations  to  which  these  poor 
ignorant  creatures  yielded,  when  they  joined  that  insurrec- 
tion, were  indeed  strong  ;  but  where  such  temptations  abound, 
a  greater  severity  is  called  for  to  preserve  the  peace  of  society. 
There  is  apparently  a  degree  of  moral  wrong,  or  at  least  an 
irreligious  sternness  to  a  fellow-mortal,  in  rejecting  the  plea 
you  offer.  But  the  first  interest  of  humanity  is  to  prevent  the 
total  break  up  of  all  social  relations,  and  to  avert  positive 
anarchy,  coute  qui  coute,  as  the  most  hopeless  and  pervading 
evil  with  whicii  our  nature  can  be  afflicted. 

LADY  EMILY,  (weeping.) 

Yet  he  saved  your  life  when  he  might  have  taken  it.  He 
restored  you  to  your  wife — to  your  child. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Emily,  why  do  you  harrow  up  my  feelings  with  such  use- 
less cruelty.  Though  I  defend  the  justice  of  the  sentence,  I 
have  done  every  thing  that  could  be  attempted  to  save  the 
criminal.  When  I  returned  again  to  that  horrid  spot,  and 
that  too  against  your  own  entreaties 

LADY  EMILY. 

Yes,  yes,  I  know  you  did.  How  often  has  that  scene 
arisen  before  me!  how  often  it  still  does!  That  night  can. 
never — never  be  forgotten.  But  think  of  the  unfortune  wo- 
man suffering  too  ! 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

They  were  both  convicted  on  the  clearest  evidence,  and 
confessed  their  crime.  The  murder  of  the  unfortunate  man 
placed  over  them,  in  the  abbey,  while  the  Sarjeant  came  to 
Herbert,  for  a  reinforcement,  was  one  only,  I  fear,  of  many 
crimes. 

LADY  EMILY,  (with  a  sobbing  sigh.) 

But  he  loved  his  wife  !  they  loved  each  other! 

14* 


14  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

But  too  well,  poor  creatures ! — In  her  last  moments  she 
confessed  that  she  had  only  shared  the  deed,  to  share  the 
punishment.  They  suffered  together,  with  much  firmness, 
though  with  deep  feeling  ;  acknov/ledging  the  justice  of 
their  sentence,  but  not  sensible  of  the  shame  of  its  penalty, 
which  they  had  been  taught  to  believe  is  martyrdom.  They 
were  the  victims  of  faction  on  both  sides  ;  and  above  all,  of 
their  own  cruelty  and  ignorance. 

LADY  EMILY. 

And  their  children  !  that  baby-boy  torn  from  his  mother's 
arms  !  \_She  looks  at  her  own  hoy^  snatches  him  wp^  and 'plac- 
ing him  in  his  father'' s  bosom^  throws  her  arms  round  hoth.l 
Both  safe — I  hold  you  both — [a  pause] — and  yet,  had  I  been 
born  in  Ireland  and  in  that  class 

[Shudders  and  presses  them  more  closely.] 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

It  is  all  true,  dear — we  are  all  human  beings.  Evil  once 
done,  lives  long  in  its  evil  consequences  ;  and  these  murder- 
ers, these  outcasts,  were  but  what  circumstance  had  made 
them.  The  state  of  Ireland  now  images  what  all  Europe 
was  some  two  centuries  ago  ;  and  the  Surrys,  the  Sydneys, 
and  the  Russells  were  only  the  victims  of  similar  combina- 
tions. It  is  knowledge,  with  its  concomitants,  liberty  and 
good  government,  that  forms  the  only  sure  protection  for 
humanity,  from  miseries  like  these.  You  weep  over  this 
single  image  of  misery,  which  you  have  witnessed  yourself; 
but  when  you  dance  at  the  feres  of  foreign  embassadors,  do 
you  think  of  the  horrors  still  committed  under  the  govern- 
ments they  represent  ? — the  dungeons  of  Spielberg ;  the 
Piombi  of  Venice  :  the  scaffolds  of  Madrid,  and  the  desarts  of 
Siberia.  It  is  easy  to  talk  of  Ireland,  its  past  bad,  and  present 
weak  government.  But  alas  !  for  the  noble  hearts  now 
breaking,  the  lofty  spirits  that  are  now  withering  under  the 
iron  sway  of  pure  despotism  throughout  the  continent  ! — 
Emancipated  Ireland,  at  least,  is  free.  She  wants  but  time, 
patience,  and  unity,  to  become  all  she  herself  can  rationally 
wish.  Repose  is  now  her  most  ur.o-ent  necessity.  Repose 
would  bring  employment — knowledge,  economy,  prosperity : 


MANOR    SACKVILLE.  15 

— I  mean  not  a  tame  acquiescence  in  abuse  or  neglect ;  but 
repose  from  internal  dissention,  from  riot,  and  from  blood. 
While  outrag-e  and  violence  are  fomented  by  bad  and  igno- 
rant men  of  ail  parties,  while  passion  and  prejudice  are  played 
upon  by  the  selfish  and  the  designing,  no  improvement,  no 
blessing  can  be  expected  for  the  suffering  land  ;  and  the 
criminal  and  his  victim  must  still  continue,  as  in  the  past  and 
at  present,  foredoomed  to  revolting  and  untimely  ends 

LADY  EMILY,  (eargerly.) 
But  you  will  not  return  there — not  to  Manor  Sackville  ? 

MR.  SACKVILLE,  (smiling  and  putting  down  the  child.) 

Oh  !  I  do  not  promise  you  that,  I  am  resolved  not  to  be 
an  absentee,  upon  compulsion.  With  all  due  respect  for 
the  Messrs.  M'Dermot,  Polypus,  and  Blackacre,  I  cannot 
give  up  my  broad  acres  and  ten  thousand  a  year,  to  please 
them  :  nor  can  I  contentedly  draw  my  rents  from  the  coun- 
try, without  making  some  effort  to  redeem  its  population 
from  the  mischievous  interference  of  such  bad  and  shallow 
men. 

LADY  EMILY. 

But  why  will  the  Irish  themselves  make  Ireland  uninhab- 
itable? I  am  sure  I  was  delighted  to  go  there.  I  never  was 
so  happy  as  the  first  week  we  passed  at  Manor  Sackville. 
But  after  all,  as  Fitzroy  Montague  used  to  quote  from  some 
French  author,  "  Le  pays  oii  Ton  aime  a  vivre,  est  celui  ou 
Ton  vive  le  mieux." 


MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Aye,  aye,  that  is  very  true.  But  every  day,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  will  render  Ireland  more  habitable, — that  is,  if  those 
who  share  its  soil  will  but  do  common  justice  to  it ;  and  the 
day  is  not  I  trust  far  off,  when  a  great  change  will  be  effected 
in  its  destinies.  This  is  the  moment  of  transition  ;  but  little 
Harry,  there,  will  perhaps  think  the  tradition  of  our  first 
visit  to  Ireland,  all  a  romance,  (like  the  rest  of  its  history,) 
and  scarcely  believe  that  "  such  things  were." 


16  MANOR    SACKVILLE. 

LADY  EMILY,  (rising  and  shaking  her  head.) 

A  romance  !     Oh  !  no. — It  began  like  a  farce,  and  ended 
like  a  tragedy. 

MR.  SACKVILLE. 

Your  epigram  contains  a  character  of  the  entire  history  of 
Ireland. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS; 


THE    TAPESTRY   WORKERS. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS; 

OR, 

THE  TAPESTRY  WORKERS. 


CHARACTERS. 


Lord  Damer — Recently  raised  to  the  peerage  ;  the  wealthy  descend- 
ant of  three  generations  of  money-spinners. 

Lady  Elizabeth  Damer — His  wife,  daughter  of  the  late  Duke  of  Rot- 
terdam, and  sister  of  the  present.  A  woman  of  quality,  in  the  old  and 
quaint  sense  of  the  word;  and  ignorant  of  all  that  belongs  to  humanity, 
beyond  the  pale  of  rank  and  fashion.  Inclined  to  doze  after  dinner,  and  to 
prose  before  it.  "  D^ailleurs  bonne  pate  de  femme,''^  and  a  successful  intri- 
guante, in  her  own  dozy-prosy  way,  for  the  interests  of  her  family.  She 
is  known  in  the  fashionable  circles,  as  "the  aunt  of  the  three  dukes;"  and 
though  voted  a  bure,  influential  in  her  calling. 

The  Honourable  Augusta  Damer. — Her  eldest  daughter,  recently 
come  out. 

The  Honourable  Frances  Damer. — Her  youngest  daughter;  very 
desirous  to  come  out. 

Ladt  Alice  Montfort — Niece  of  Lady  Elizabeth,  and  daughter  of 
Ihe  Duke  of  Montfort,  (Lady  Elizabeth's  widowed  brother-in-law.)  A 
thorough-bred  girl  of  fashion  ;  distinguished  by  her  sulky,  haughty,  and 
supercilious  air,  which  passes  for  ton,  and  is  the  result  of  iIl-hum"our.  For 
the  rest,  dull,  ignorant,  and  selfish. 

Lords — John,  Leicester,  William,  and  Francis  Fitz^orward, 
sons  of  Lady  Elizabeth's  late  brother-in-law,  the  Duke  of  Dullwhosehe, 
and  brothers  of  the  present  duke,  who  has  recently  married  his  cousin, 
the  youngest  sister  of  Lady  Alice. 

Lord  Mount  Twaddledum,  de  Mount-Twaddledum — An  old  noble- 
man of  the  old  school.  A  great  favourite  in  the  reign  of  George  the  Third  ; 
and  very  deep  in  heraldic  lore  and  aristocratical  etiquette. 

Colonel  Montagu  St.  Leser — of  the  Guards ; — who  has  been  young 


20  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

so  long,  that  he  cannot  bring  himself  to  grow  old.  A  juvenile  beauty- 
fancier.  A  leader  of  fashion  in  dress,  and  the  object  of  matrimonial  specu- 
lation, as  nephew  and  heir  of  old  Earl  of  Derwentwater,  the  Elwes  of  the 
Red-book,a  valetudinarian  ,  always  dying,  and  never  dead. 

Count  Amadee  de  Valblanc — a  Parisian  "/as/uo7ia6Zc,"  of  small 
means  and  great  pretensions,  and  of  supreme  ton  in  the  best  London 
circles,  (through  the  influence  of  the  diplomatic  ladies.)  The  Count  ia 
the  model  of  the  dandies  of  the  Ckaussee  D\1nlin,  who  pronounce  his  toilet 
to  be  "  e/oitrdissan^"  He  was  the  first  that  introduced  into  France  "  wn 
tigre  ^Sjiglais,"  and  put  the  old  ^^  Jokeif  out  of  fashion.  The  "  age7icement" 
of  his  cravat  is  the  despair  of  the  eltgans  of  the  Tuileries  ;  and  his  Free- 
vert-alair  the  fun  of  the  magnates  at  Crockey's.  The  Count  is  an  ama- 
teur of  Russian  billiards  and  English  heiresses. 

Mr.  Wilkinson. — A  nabob,  and  a  country  neighbour  of  Lord  Damer, 
to  whose  villa  he  is  invited,  in  consideration  of  sundry  tributes  to  Lady 
Elizabeth,  of  Benares  turbans  and  brocades.  Mr.  Wilkinson  is  an  im- 
personation of  Indian  morgue  and  muUagalawney.  A  great  worshipper 
of  lords  and  ladies,  and  professed  contemner  of  all,  ungifted  with  wealth 
and  rank. 

Miss  Wilkinson. — His  only  daughter,  a  fair  copy  of  the  father,  in  duo' 
decimo;  educated  and  chaperoned  bv  iMrs.  Primmer.  Miss  W.  is  shrewd 
and  silly,  (odd,  but  possible  compatibilities.)  She  is'  the  friend  and  confi- 
dante of  Miss  Fanny  Damer,  (in  the  country,)  but  treated  de  haul  en  bas 
by  the  rest  of  the  famly  (every  where).  Lady  Elizabeth  keeps  her  in  petto 
for  her  nephew  Lord  John  Fitzforward. 

Mrs.  O'Neal. — A  notuhilitz ;  an  accidental  guest  at  the  Cliff 

Cecil  Howard — With  "  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards"  in  his  veins, 
and  the  head  of  an  Antinous  on  his  shoulders  ;  but  with  a  certain  con- 
traction of  the  muscles  of  the  back  of  the  neck,  that  gives  him  the  air  of 
what  is  vulgarly  called  "  snufiing  the  moon."  Clever,  elegant,  and  natu- 
rally superior  to  his  class;  but  spoiled  by  his  6on?ie/oriune  abroad, — the 
result  of  his  beauty  and  accompHshments ;  and  spoiled  at  home,  by  his 
unexpected  succession  to  a  noble  fortune.  An  reste,  an  egoist,  living  only 
for  himself  and  the  qu^en  dira  t-on  of  the  sphere  in  which  he  moved. 

Mrs.  Primmer — The  Madam.e  Campan  of  accrlain  set — ex-governess 
lo  the  female  Monlfords  and  Darners — at  present,  the  head  of  a  splendid 
establishment  in  Port  man-Square,  where,  in  her  quality  of  professed 
chaperon,  and  as  having  the  entr^  of  several  great  houses,  she  finishes, 
and  presents  into  society,  six  young  ladies  of  rank,  or  of  wealth,  at  the 
trifling  salary  of  five  hundred  per  annum  each.  Mrs.  Primmer  is  reckoned 
a  very  accomplished  and  clever  person  by  those  who — know  no  better. 
She  is  a  distinguished  professor  of  the  fashionable  tapestry  work  ;  and 
though  not  absolutely  "serious,"  is  "properly  religious,"  as  persons  in  her 
station  ought  to  be.  She  was  very  nearly  being  married  to  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Doody,  private  tutor  to  the  young  Duke  of  Dullwhosehe  ;  but  the  Doctor 
having  been  rapidly  raised  to  the  Bench,  by  the  interest  of  the  Duke,  he 
was  under  the  necessity  of  marrying  a  lady  of  rank  ;  and  united  himself  to 
the  portionless  maiden  aunt  of  his  patron — a  previous  arrangement,  al- 
most amounting  to  simony.  At  the  sound  of  his  name,  Mrs.  Primmer 
still  sighs,  and  looks  sentimental. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  Si 

Mr.  Mandeville  Liston,  a  young  man  upon  town,  whom  every  body 
does  not  know,  but  who  is  very  anxious  that  every  body  should.  He  is 
rich,  rvturier,  and  under  the  special  protectioaof  Lords  John  and  Leicester 
Fitzforward,  who  push  him  on  in  fashionable  society,  win  his  money,  drive 
hia  horses,  and  ask  their  friends  to  eat  his  dinners. 

Mr,  Johnson  and  I\1r.  Thompson,  from  DubHn,  members  of  the  Kil- 
dare  Street  Club,  and  for  Lord  Damer's  Irish  boroughs. 

Mr.  Mattrice  Montgomerie  Sullivan  ;  (alias  Maurish  O'Soolivan  in 
Ireland ;) — A  politico-literary  talented  Irishman  ;  who  having  offered  to 
torite,  or  fight,  for  Lord  Damer,  during  the  contested  election  oH  Ballyhorow, 
became  an  attach^  of  his  lordship's  political  staff  in  Ireland  ;  and,  subse- 
quently, his  protege  in  London.  Mr.  Sullivan  furnishes  journals,  gazettes, 
and  newspapers,  with  fashionable  articles,  and  political  squibs  ; — the  first 
manufactured  from  the  on  dits  of  his  patron's  drawing-room ;  and  the  last 
in  direct  opposition  to  his  patron's  interests  and  principles. 

Mr.  Burton. — House-steward  to  Lord  Damer. 

Mr.  Wilson. — First  groom  of  the  chambers  to  ditto. 

Twinkle. — Lady  Elizabeth's  page. 

John, — the  first,  and  William, — the  third  footman  to  ditto. 

Lord  Eglantine. — A  Lord  who  has  travelled  a  little,  and  talks  of  it  a 
great  deal. 

Sir  William  Lighthead. — An  author  of  fashion,  if  not  in  fashion. 

Duchesses,  Countesses,  Dukes,  Dandies,  Hall-Porters,  Footmen, 
Grooms  of  the  Chambers,  Link-Boys,  and  others. 


15 


THE    EASTER    RECESS. 


SCENE    I. 


[The  gallery  at  Lord  Darner's  villa,  " /Ae  Clijf;^^  a  Ion?,  architectural 
apartment,  with  windows  perforated  in  Xhc  lofty  walls  on  one  side, 
and  pictures  and  statues  decorating  the  other.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  two  Paul  Pollers,  and  a  Rembrandt,  lately  purchased, 
the  rest  arc  ffood  copies  of  the  old  Italian  masters,  or  portraits  of 
the  Montford,  Duliwhoselie,  and  Mount  TwaddUdnm  families, 
from  the  originals  by  Vandyke,  Lily,  and  Sir  Go;!frey  Knelier,  (in 
the  possession  of  the  representatives  of  those  ancient  houses.) 
The  double  windows  are  "redolent  of  bloom  and  «)dours"  from  the 
quantities  of  exotics  stowed,  or  stored  into  them.  The  inner 
sashes  are  thrown  open.  On  the  consoles,  encoi^neurs,  and  tri- 
pods filling  the  piers,  rete.-s^s,  ;ind  angles,  (pa..h  a  specimen  of 
fine  marqneterie,  scagliuolo,  bronze,  or  orn)<  In.)  stand  pendules 
by  Bhul,  elaborately  carved  cabins  ts  by  Gibbons,  with  piles  of 
Nankeen,  Japan,  Elizabeth,  Dresden,  Chels"a,  and  enamelled 
China  beakers,  vases,  jnrs,  dejunes,  lampel  dishes,  arrosoirs,  &c. 
&c.  An  old  pair  of  family  bellows,  bparinu  a  ducal  coronet,  and 
some  other  family  relics  (collected  by  Lady  Elizahet'  .)  give  to  the 
new  gallery  of  the  Cliff  the  air  of  an  old  cu,i<isity  shopin  Hanway 
Yard,  or  a  ynagazin  d'occasion  on  the  Q.uai  Voltaire,  'i'hecentreof 
the  vast  apartment  is  occupied  by  divans,  ottomans,  tabourets, 
chairs,  dormeuses,  and  fauleuils,  of  every  age  and  country,  cush- 
ioned with  every  sort  of  material,  from  iron  to  air,  flock,  feather, 
and  eider-down  inclusive.  Sevisral  tables,  round,  srjuaie,  and  oval, 
are  laden  with  albums,  annuals,  magazines,  and  newspapers.  A 
large,  round  work-table,  immediately  under  the  great  cenlre-lamp, 
and  furnished  with  bourgeois  and  green  shades,  display?  some 
scattered  tragments  and  patterns  of  fashionable  tapestry  work.  In 
Lady  Elizabeth's  arm-chair,  on  one  side  of  the  ceui re  fire-place, 
lounges  Mr  Burton,  the  house-sievvard,  rep'-sinc  'limself,  after 
the  fatigues  of  wailing  at  a  long  dinner,  at  which  he  did  nothing 
but  yawn  behind  Lord  Darner's  chair,  or  smile  at  Mrs.  O'Neal's 
jokes.  In  Lord  Darner's  chair,  opposite  Mr.  Wil.^o.n,  first  groom 
of  the  chambers,  is  sealed,  bolt  up.ighl,  sp-  lli.ig  the  "Age" 
Newspaper,  with  intense  attention.  .Tohn,  the  second  footman, 
attended  by  William,  the  third,  is  lighting  the  lamps,  &.c.  &.c.  &c. 


MR.  WILSON. 

1  gay,  here  is  a  hit  at  us.  ^Reads.']  "  Sir  Rober  Darner, 
who  has  been  lately  raised  by  his  new  friends  the  Whigs,  to 
the  peerage,  as  Baron  Darner,  of  Damer  Castle,  in  Sunder- 
land, is,  we  understand,  to  get  another  lift  up  the  stick  of 
nobility,  by  the  appropriate  title  of  Earl  Rat-Cliffs  of  the 
Cliff." 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  ^ 

MR.  BURTON,  (in  a  picktooth  tone  and  manner.) 

The  Age  is  getting  so  decidedly  vulgar,  that  I  never  read 
it. 

MR.  WILSON. 

Well,  I  think  it  very  amusing  !  Here  we  are  again. 
My  Lord  must  come  down  handsomely,  or  we  shall  be  run 
as  hard  as  our  "Duchess,"  or  "our  Sam." — [Reads.] 
"  The  recruiting  service  for  the  Villas,  this  Easter,  has  been 
carried  on  with  unusual  activity  and  spirit  :  great  premiums 
have  been  offered  in  some  quarters,  and  to  no  purpose.  Sion 
House,  Hartfield,  and  Chisvvick,  are  always  sure  ;  but  that 
modern  antique  mansion,  the  Cliff,  which  included  among 
its  guests,  last  year,  the  most  distinguished  of  the  ex-min- 
isters and  nobility,  is  reduced,  we  understand,  to  poor  cous- 
ins, younger  brothers,  and  (as  they  say  in  Ireland)  followers 
of  the  family — Oh  my  countrymen  !  what  a  falling  off  is 
there  !  " 

MR.  BURTON,  (smiling.) 

Do  you  know,  there  is  some  truth  in  that.  I  never  saw 
such  an  Easter  party  here,  before.  Not  one  of  the.big-Avigs 
neither  the  Duke,  nor  Sir  Robert  !  Not  an  R.  H.,  nor  an 
ambassador  !  You  ought  to  know  who  was  asked,,  for. 
you  write  the  invitations. 

MR.  WILSON. 

Faith,  my  lad3r  and  I  marked  out  half  the  red-book ;  at 
least,  we  took  the  cream  of  our  ov/n  visiting  book  :  but  out 
of  eighteen  invitations  to  dktingues,  (as  Mademoiselle  Ber- 
thon  calls  them,)  four  only  were  accepted  ;  and  they  have 
not  yet  arrived.  If  they  all  come,  some  of  the  young  Fitz- 
forwards  must  shove  off  their  boats — so  must  the  Paddies, 
the  Irish  M.  P's.,  the  Balliborows  ! 

MR.  BURTON. 

Oh  !  of  course — so  must  Mrs.  Primmer  and  some  others. 
To  be  sure,  the  airs  that  woman  gives  herself,  and  the 
manner  in  which  she  rides  my  lady  roughshod,  is  quite 
ridiculous  !  my  lady  is  so  indolent.    Do  ye  know  that  when 


^V  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

I  was  groom  of  the  chambers,  at  my  lady's  brother,  the 
Duke's,  she  was  the  governess  of  Lady  Alice ;  and  was 
glad  to  steal  down  to  the  house-keeper's  room,  after  the 
young  one  was  in  bed,  to  play  Pope  Joan ;  while  she,  and 
the  present  Bishop  of  Kiltrustem  in  Ireland,  who  was  tutor 
to  the  present  Duke,  thought  it  a  great  thing  to  dine  at  the 
great  table,  when  the  family  were  alone ;  and  never  failed, 
when  the  children  retired,  to  take  their  chamber  candles, 
and  be  off  to  bed  too.  The  bishop  is  now  talked  of  for  the 
Primacy  of  Ireland ;  and  Mrs.  Primmer  is  at  the  head  of  a 
great  establishment,  and  goes  into  the  best  society. 

MR.  WILSON. 

Well,  and  if  you  close  with  Caruther  and  Co.,  you  will 
goon  be  a  fashionable  wine  merchant,  entertain  your  illus- 
trious customers  at  dinner,  and  figure  in  the  Morning  Post, 
among  the  dinner-givers  to  Royal  Highnesses  and  Cabinet 
Ministers. 

MR.  BURTON,  (smiling  and  looking  at  hi3  watch.) 

Perhaps  !  but  how  late  the  women  sit  to-day  !  As  soon 
as  my  lady  comes  out,  I  mean  to  run  up  to  town  in  my 
tilbury.  'I  have  promised  to  sup  after  the  opera,  at  our 
younger  partner's,  that  is  to  be. 

MR.  WILSON. 

You  will  scarcely  do  that.  I  suppose  it  is  that  amusing 
Mrs.  O'Neal,  who  is  keeping  them  so  late  at  table  to-day. 
Who  is  she  ? 


MR.  BURTON. 

Oh,  the  woman  that  writes  the  books.  I  wish  she  was  at 
the  devil  now,  with  her  stories.  I  told  my  lady,  too,  that  I 
was  obliged  to  go  to  town,  on  business,  to-night. 

JOHN,  (lighting  the  candelabra  on  the  chimney-piece.) 

Please,  sir,  the  ladies  are  out  this  half  hour.  My  lady 
and  Mrs.  O'Neal  are  in  the  library ;  and  the  young  ladies 
are  seated  round  the  fire,  in  Mrs.  Primmer's  dressing-room. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  ^ 

I  look  Miss  Fanny  her  reticule,  which  she  left  under  the 
dinner-table. 

[Messrs,  Burton  and  Wilson  start  up,  and  shake  the  cushions  of  the 
chairs.  The  room  is  now  splendidly  lighted.  The  door,  at  the 
end  of  the  gallery,  is  opened  by  a  fantastically-dressed  httle  page, 
discovering  a  small,  handsome  library,  dimly  lighted,  from  which, 
Lady  Elizabeth  Damer  and  Mrs.  O'Neal  advance.  The  ser- 
vants draw  up  respectfully.  Lady  Elizabeth  is  supported  by  "  k 
can?ie"  of  the  Dowager  Duchess  of  Rotterdam,  (the  fashion  of 
ladies  of  all  ages,  in  the  good  old  times.  She  moves  like  a  tortoise, 
resembles  an  Indian  Jos,  and  is  involved  in  volumes  of  velvet,  and 
bales  of  cashmeer.  Her  nondescript  turban,  surmounting  her 
redundant  coiffure,  is  weighed  down  by  an  aigrette  of  diamonds, 
which  brings  the  whole  edifice  in  frequent  danger  of  utter  destruc- 
tion. Her  fine  dark  eyes  are  set  off  by  a  deep  spot  of  rouge  under 
them, — worn,  not  to  inhance  her  beauty,  but  to  show  her  quahty. 
Although  cumbrous  and  grotesque  in  dress,  she  has  still  the  "  air 
d'une  femme  de  qualite,  tres  prononce  ;"  which,  as  her  own  parti- 
cular set  observe,  when  they  laugh  at  her,  "  can  never  be  mis- 
taken." Her  very  obesity  is  an  indication  of  caste.  Mrs.  O'Neal 
follows,  alert,  and  full  of  movement ;  and  though  plainly  dressed, 
is  still  within  the  pale  of  fashion.  Her  arms  are  full  of  books,  and 
her  countenance  full  of  fun,— seemingly  elicited  by  the  grouping 
before  her, — the  little  page,  the  great  lady,  and  her  fidgetty  selK 
Lady  Elizabeth  sinks  slowly  into  her  great  chair.  Burton  takes 
her  "caujie,"  and  places  it  beside  her.  The  page  settles  a  footstool, 
Mr.  Wilson  arranges  her  shaded  lights,  reading  glasses,  and  other 
little  indispensable  superfluities,  on  a  small  console,  between  her 
chair  and  the  chimney-piece.  Lady  Elizabeth,  during  this  opera- 
tion, is  talking  to  Mrs.  O'Neal,  who  stands  looking  on.] 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (with  a  very  peculiar  drawl  of  voice,  and  nasality 
of  accent.) 

Now,  do,  pray,  Mrs.  O'Neal,  let  one  of  the  men  carry 
those  books  to  your  dressing-room.  It  is  very  tiresome, — car- 
rying books  !  Wilson,  do, — will  you  ? — take  those  books  to 
Mrs.  O'Neal's  dressing-room. 

[Wilson  advances  carelessly,  and  offers  to  take  the  books  languidly.] 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (giving  the  books.) 
Stay,  I'll  reserve  a  volume  to  doze  over. 

[Throws  herself  into  the  opposite  easy  chair.J 


MR.  BURTON,  (to  Lady  Elizabeth.) 
Has  your  Ladyship  any  orders  for  town  ? 
15* 


26  THI    EASTER    RECE5S. 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 
Oh  !  so — you  are  going  to  town,  are  you? 

MR.  BURTON. 

I  told  your  Ladyship,  I  have  business  in  Berkeley  Square, 
about  wines.  I  shall  be  back  for  dinner  to-morrow,  my 
lady. 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 

Oh  !  very  well. — No,  I  do  not  think  that  there  is  any 
thing.     How  do  you  go  ? 

MR.  BURTON. 
In  my  own  tilbury,  my  lady. 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 

Oh  !  by-the-bye,  you  couldn't  take  Miss  Fanny's  piano- 
forte into  town — could  you  ?     It  wants  something  to  be  done. 

MR.  BURTON,  (drily.) 

Not  conveniently,  my  lady ;  but  I  will  give  orders,  that  it 
shall  be  sent  by  the  cart  to-morrow. 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 
Oh  !  very  well — no — I  have  no  orders  ! 

[Burton  bows  and  backs  out.] 

MR.  WILSON. 
Shall  I  light  your  ladyship's  candles  1 

LADY  ELIZABETH, 

Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  say  ;  I  believe  not 
yet.  The  flame  is  so  very  much  in  one's  eyes.  Can't  you 
do  something,  Wilson,  to  prevent  their  glaring  so  ? 


THE    BASTER    RECESS.  27 

MR.  WILSON. 

I  know  of  nothing  but  the  shades,  my  lady. 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 

Yes,  but  then  they  throw  the  light  so  downwards.  Mrs. 
O'Neal,  you  are  so  very  clever,  Lord  Darner  says  ;  can't  you 
now,  in  your  way,  hit  on  something  to  prevent  lights,  some- 
how? 

[Losing  her  idea,  but  annoyed  by  the  sensation  that  originated  it.] 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
I  know — to  prevent  lights  giving  light. 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (rousing  herself.) 

Well  now,  that  is  it — something,  you  know,  soft,  that  don't 
glare  ;  'tis  so  very  tiresome  ! — it  worries  one  so  ! 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Suppose  a  room  lighted  with  dark  lanterns  ! 

[Wilson  smiles  ;  and  having  arranged  the  lights,  leaves  the  room.] 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (drowsily.) 

Well — yes — that  is  it — it  would  be  so  very  nice  !  You 
are  so  clever  ! 

[A  pause.  The  page  stands  like  an  effigy  in  wax-work.  Lady 
Ehzabeth  dozes  !] 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (beckoning  the  child,  and  in  a  low  voice.) 

Don't  you  think,  now,  you  might  go  and  play  ? 

[The  boy  looks  ?tupified,  by  this  proofof  consideration.  Mrs.  O'Neal 
purposely  lets  fall  her  book.  Lady  Elizabeth  starts,  and  opens  her 
eyes.] 


LADY  ELIZABETH,  (to  the  page.) 
Did  you  fall  ? 


No,  my  lady. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS. 


PAGE. 


MRS.  O'NEAL. 


He  is  very  near  falling  asleep — poor  child — May  he  not 
retire  ? 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 

Well,  you  may  go,  boy — \^exit  page]  and  sleep. — [Lady 
Elizabeth' s  good  breeding  gets  the  better  of  her  lethargic  ten- 
dencies : — after  a  few  minute's  indulgence,']  .  . .  .Are  you' 
fond  of  reading,  Mrs.  O'Neal? 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Rather,  Lady  Elizabeth ! 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 

Now,  do  pray  amuse  yourself:  never  mind  me,  you  know. 
There  are  such  quantities  of  new  annuals  !  There's  '*  The 
Violet."  It  is  edited  by  Lady.  Lucy  Bluette.  You  must 
patronize  the  Violet.  It  is  in  such  very  good  taste,  they 
say  !     Lord  Augustus  Fritter  writes  for  it. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

To  be  sure.  The  Violet, — "  sweet,  but  not  permanent," — 
the  epigraph  of  the  whole  genus. 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (gradually  sinking  again.) 

Indeed  !  Well,  I'm  glad  you  like  the  annuals.  I  hope 
you  won't  mind  me.  You  must  amuse  yourself,  till  the 
men  come  out.  Somebody  says,  you  never  talk  to  women, 
you  are  so  very  clever. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

Oh  !  yes  I  do.  [  Yawning.']  I  can  talk  to  anybody,  and 
listen,  too.  I  think  an  agreeable  woman  the  most  agreeable 
creature  in  the  world.     But,  somehow,  I  am  not  popular 


THE  EASTER  RECESS.  39 

with  women  :  your  young  people,  for  instance,  and  their 
fair  Minerva,  Mrs.  Primmer,  seem  to  hold  me  en  belle  et 
franche  aversion:  at  least,  they  never  speak  to  me,  in  Lon- 
don ;  but  toss  about  their  pretty  heads,  and  look  disdainfully 
with  their  stag-like  eyes. 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (rousing.) 

Oh  !  no,  I  assure  you,  you  are  mistaken  ; — they  are  ex- 
ceedingly amused  by  you  :  but  then  they  are  so  much  afraid, 
you  have  no  idea. 


MRS.  O'NEAL. 
At  least,  I  have  no  idea  why  they  should. 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 

You  know,  they  say  you  would  rather  stay  with  the  men 
after  dinner  ;  and  vote  women  a  bore. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

Don't  believe  more  than  half  what  is  said  of  me,  dearest 
Lady  Elizabeth  ;  so  far  from  desiring  to  stay  with  the  men, 
I  think  the  foreign  habit  of  men  and  women,  rising  from  the 
table  together,  is  Uze  coqueterie.  Besides,  the  half-hour's 
repose,  for  silence  and  digestion,  is  a  great  luxury.  [Sup- 
pressing a  yawn.l   I  hate  talking  between  dinner  and  cofiee. 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (half-dozing.) 

Indeed!  well,  it's  not  pleasant.  Some  people  nap  a  little. 
Lord  Darner  says  it's  so  unwholesome.  He  does  talk  so, 
after  dinner  !  'tis  so  very  odd.     [Nods.'\ 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

The  men  have  the  advantage  of  us,  every  way.  Men  have 
always  the  excitements  of  stirring  subjects  after  dinner, — 
politics, — fun  ; — and  then  the  exhilaration  of  wine  and  good 
fellowship  :  while  we  women  rise  from  table  upon  clotted 
cream,  iced ;  or  on  clammy  compots, — for  all  women  are 
gourmands  at  the  dessert ;  and  then  we  come  out  to  gossip 


30  THE  EASTER  RECESS. 

with  each  other,  about  nothing  at  all,  and  when  we  are  fit 
for  nothing  at  all,  but  a  lounge,  a  book,  or  a  sleep. 

[Fixes  her  eyes  on  Lady  Elizabeth,  who  gradually  falls  into  a  deep 
slumber.  Mrs.  O'Neal  then  sinks  avec  delice  into  her  arm-chair, 
opens  her  book,  and  mutters,  "  The  elixir  vifoe — Beaumarchais." 
Hali  an  hour  elapses.  Servants  enter  with  cotfee  ;  but  supposing 
both  ladies  asleep,  (a  family  habit  m  the  house  of  Darner,)  they 
retire.  At  length',  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  gallery  opens  ;  and  a 
rompinw  group  advance,  consisting  of  Lady  Alice,  Miss  Damer, 
Miss  Fannt,  Miss  Wilkinson,  and  Mrs.  Primmer.  "  Le  mot  a 
rire,"  which  seems  to  amuse  them  all,  does  not  appear.  Miss 
Fanny  suddenly  stops,  draws  up,  puts  her  forefinger  to  her  lip,  and 
points  to  the  arm-chairs  on  either  side  the  fire.  They  all  make 
faces,  and  advance  on  tiptoe.] 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (shaking  her  head,  with  remonstrating  gravity.) 
Mes  enfans  !  mes  enfans  ! 


MISS  FANNY,  (with  a  school-girl  air,  and  in  a  low  mutter,  as  they  all 
gather  round  the  table.) 

Mind,  I  take  my  place  next  Mrs.  Primmer  ;  I  am  only 
going  for  a  cushion  to  raise  me. — I  do  so  hate  a  low  seat ! 

MRS.  PRIMMER. 

Fanny,  my  dear  Fanny,  you  are  so  wild.  It  is  for  Lady 
Alice  to  choose.      Pray  make  way  for  your  cousin. 

[Lady  Alice  pushes  away  her  cousin's  chair,  carelessly  drags  an  arm- 
chair, and  throws  herself  languidly  on  one  side  of  Mis.  Primmer.] 

MISS  FANNY,  (with  ill-temper.) 

How  ridiculous  !  taking  precedence  at  a  work-table !  I 
suppose  we  must  have  the  Red  Book  put  down  with  our  bas- 
kets.    Alice,  as  mamma  says,  you  are  a  true  Montfort. 

LADY  ALLICE,  (drily.) 

Fanny,  M-e  cannot  accuse  3'ou  of  the  same  distinction. 
You  are  a  regular  Damer,  jusqvJ'oM  bout  des  doigts.  \^A 
general  laugh  ;  Fanny  pouts.l 

MRS.  PRIMMER. 
Doucement,  doucement,  mes  petites. 


THE    EASTER    RECE8S.  31 

[Enter  Mam'selles  Alexandrine  and  Justine, /emme*  de  Chambrei 
laden  with  work-baskets,  woik-boxes,  and  all  the  paraphf  rnaha  of 
the  strenuous  idleness  of  tapnstry  workers.  They  distribute  the 
materials  round  the  table  :  each  young  lady  having  her  own  elegant 
and  expensive  apparatus.] 

MAM'SELLE  ALEXANDRINE,  faddressin^  Lady  Alice,  who  lies 
back  in  her  chair,  in  a  reverie  ;  while  the  others  are  engaged  in 
making  their  arrangements.) 

Est-ce  la  bourse  en  tissue  de  perles,  ou  en  resflle  que 
miladi  desire  ? 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (coaxingly  to  Lady  Alice.) 

Don't  you  think,  sweet  love,  that  netting  so  small  a  thing, 
and  threading  pearl,  is  trying  for  your  pretty  eyes  at  night. 

LADY  ALICE. 

Oh  !  I  hate  it.  I  like  nothing  in  this  world  so  well,  at 
night,  as  my  lamb's-wool  work.  But  the  frame  is  so  large, 
to  bring  into  company.     Don't  you  think  so  ? 

MRS.  PRIMMER. 

Not  at  all,  dear.  The  Hauntenvilles,  even  in  London, 
bring  down  their  frames  in  the  evening,  when  they  have 
working  parties  at  home  ;  which  they  have  once  a  week. 


MISS  DAMER. 

Oh  !  I  assure  you,  Pll  have  7?ii/  round  frame  down.  I 
hate  working  on  the  finger.  It  looks  like  mamma's  charity- 
school  girls,  in  the  country,  working  Adam  and  Eve  under 
a  tree,  on  a  sampler.  [They  all  titter.]  Justine,  bring  me 
my  cat  and  mackerel.     I  can  ground  in  grey  by  lamp-light. 

MISS  FANNY. 

And  bring  me  my  little  ivory  frame.  I'll  finish  my  dog's 
tail  to-night.  I  give  myself  that  task  :  'tis  black,  and  I  can- 
not go  astray.     I  worked  four  hours  at  it  to-day. 

MISS  WILKINSON,  (timidly.) 

Mam*selle  Julie,  will  you  be  so  kind  as  tell  my  maid  I 
would  be  glad  to  have  my  tapestry  frame  :  the  inlaid  one. 


33  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

MISS  DAMER,  (haughtily.) 
Nonsense,    Miss   Wilkinson !    we   cannot    have   all   our 
frames,  you  know. 

MISS  WILKINSON,  (smiling,  and  colouring  between  subserviency  and 
resentment.) 

Oh  !  no,  to  be  sure — I  will  work  at  my  fringe,  then. 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (with  emphatic  gravity.) 

I  think,  my  dears,  we  had  better  settle  our  plans  for  the 
evening,  before  the  gentlemen  come  out,  to  avoid  all  little 
disputes  on  the  subject.  Lady  Alice  and  Miss  Damer  will 
have  their  small  frames.  Fanny,  love,  you  can  finish  your 
dog's  tail  on  your  finger. 

MISS  FANNY,  (pouts.) 
I  will  not  rip  it  out  of  the  frame  ;  that's  poz. 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (angrily.) 

Well,  then,  have  your  frame  ;  and  you,  Miss  Wilkinson, 
can  knot  your  eternal  fringe.  I,  as  usual,  will  have  my 
cherry-tree  net.  It's  the  only  work  my  poor  eyes  are  equal 
to.  [Exeimt  maids  for  the  frames.]  That  immense  carpet 
I  worked  for  the  Duchess,  finished  my  eyes,  last  winter. 

MISS  FANNY,  (spitefully,  but  with  great  naivete.) 

And  do  you  know  what  she  said,  when  it  was  laid  down  in 
her  dressing-room  ? — "  Take  it  up,  take  it  up — one  can  buy 
a  prettier  for  three  shillings  a  yard,  at  Waterloo-house,  and 
choose  one's  own  pattern  and  colours  into  the  bargain." 

LADY  ALICE,  (positively.) 
I  am  sure  she  never  said  any  such  thing. 


MISS  FANNY,  (more  positively.) 

Upon  my  honour,  she  did — I  was  by — so  was  the  Duk« 
and  Euphemia, 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  33 


MISS  DAMER. 

Every  one  has  flattered  you,  Fanny,  on  your  naivete,  till 
you  say  all  sorts  of  disagreeable  things.  Cecil  Howard  says 
it  is  more  knavery  than  yidivete.      \_Fanny  laughs. '\ 


MRS.  PRIMMER,  (contemptuously.) 

Poor  Fanny  !  Perhaps  it  is  a  little  of  both. — [A  titter. '\ 

[Enter  the  maids  with  the  frames,  work-boxes,  &c.  &c.  Lady  AHce 
takes  from  a  magnificent  box  of  mother-of-pearl,  inlaid  with  gold 
and  gems,  all  the  implements  for  her  work.j 

LADY  ALICE,  (after  a  moment's  pause.) 

Alexandrine,  take  away  that  odious  box.  I  hate  it — I  am 
sick  of  it.     [She  sighs.'] 

[Miss  Wilkinson  pushes  the  box  to  Alexandrine;  it  strikes  up  the 
air  of  the  Muette  de  Portici.  Miss  Damer  looks  at  it  with  eyes  of 
covetousness.] 

MISS  FANNY,  (dropping  her  work  in  extacy.) 

Oh !  how  I  do  love  that  air  !  Don't  I,  Emma  Wilkin- 
son? 

MISS  WILKINSON. 
Yes,  you  do  love  it  so  ? 

MISS  DAMER. 

I  am  sick  of  it.  One  heard  nothing  else  at  Almack's  all 
this  season.  How  often  do  you  think  it  was  played  1  William 
Fitzforward  and  I  counted.     [They  all  guess.] 

MISS  DAMER. 
More,  more,  more — fifty-four  times ! 

MISS  FANNY.. 

I  don't  wonder  in  the  least,  I'm  sure  !  William  Fitzfor- 
ward does  play  it  so  sweetly  on  his  guitar  ! 

16 


S4  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

MISS  WILKINSON. 
Oh !  so  sweetly — particularly  in  a  window. 

[The  young  ladies  look  significantly  at  each  other,  and  smile.] 

LADY  ALICE,  (peevishly.) 

If  you  have  done  looking  and  listening,  we  will  send  it 
away,  if  you  please.  Alexandrine,  do  not  bring  it  out  again, 
till  I  call  for  it. 

MISS  DAMER,  (maliciously.) 

What,  your  beautiful  box  !  the  cadeau  de  noces  from  the 
Duke  !  Well,  next  to  the  Duke  offering  me  his  hand,  and 
coronet,  I  should  prefer  that  box  to  any  thing. — I  should  so 
like  to  have  such  a  box ;  would  you  sell  it  ? 

LADY  ALICE,  (insolently.) 

Yes,  if  you  are  rich  enough  to  buy  it.  It  cost  sixty  Na- 
poleons at  Bautte's,  at  Geneva. 

MISS  DAMER,  (examining  it  with  envious  admiration.) 

Sixty  Napoleons  !  but  as  a  thing  d^occasio?i,  you  couldn't 
ask  that  for  it  now,  Alice  ! 

LADY  ALICE. 

Oh  !  Je  ne  merchande  pas.  Besides,  what  does  it  signify 
what  I  ask  for  it  ?  You  are  not  rich  enough  this  season,  I 
know,  to  buy  it ; — and  I  am  too  poor  to  give  it  you  for  nothing. 
Our  tapestry-work  has  ruined  us  all  ;  my  Prussian  hussar 
cost  me  six  guineas. 

MISS  FANNY,  (who  had  been  whispering  with  Miss  Wilkinson.) 

Alice,  dear,  Miss  Wilkinson  will  give  you  your  own  price 
for  the  box,  if  you  really  wish  to  part  with  it. 

MISS  WILKINSON. 

Any  thing  of  dear  Lady  Alice's  is  beyond  all  price.  Papa 
gave  me  a  fifty  pound  note  for  my  Easter  gift,  to  furnish  my 


THE    EASTER    RECESS. 


35 


tapestry-table  with ;  but   I  would  much  rather  possess  that 
beautiful  box  ;— especially  as  having  been  Lady  Alice's. 

LADY  ALICE,  (eagerly.) 

Oh  !  it  is  your's,  Miss  Wilkinson,  with  much  pleasure. 
I  get  so  soon  tired  of  toys  !  You  are  to  observe,  all  the  tur- 
quoises and  gems  are  real.     It  is  intrinsically  very  valuable. 

MISS  WILKINSON. 

I  am  sure  of  that.  {She  searches  in  a  magnificent  hidian 
ivory  box  for  a  bank-note.)  Here  is  the  money.  I  am  so 
much  obliged.  [Gives  the  note,  and  draws  the  box  to  set  it 
■plai/ing.] 

MISS  FANNY,  (caressingly.) 

And  what  will  you  do  with  your  own  pretty  box,  dear 
Emma? 

MISS  WILKINSON. 

Give  it  to  you,  dear,  if  you  will  do  me  the  honour  to  ac- 
cept it.     Now^,  you  really  must  ;  it  is  my  Easter  gift. 

MISS  FANNY. 
But  you  have  given  me  so  many  pretty  things  already. 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (to  herself.) 
The  Plunderers  ! 

MISS  \VILKINSON. 

Well,  but  I  have  such  heaps  of  Indian  things  and  boxes. 
[  With  Lady  Alice's  manner,]  I  am  so  sick  of  them  !  One 
does  so  tire  of  every  thing. 

MISS  FANNY,  (kissing  her,  and  taking  the  box.) 

You  are  so  generous.  But  you  must  let  me  net  you  a 
purse  with  my  cipher  in  my  own  hair. 

MISS  WILKINSON,  (much  flattered.) 
Oh  !  that  will  be  so  beautiful  ! 


36  THE  EASTER  RECESS. 


LADY  ALICE,  (turning  to  Alexandrine.) 

Alexandrine,   bring  me  down   my    cabas.     I  must    haTe 
something  to  toss  these  things  in. 


MISS  DAMER,  (pausing  in  her  work.) 

A  cahas  !  Have  you  really  a  cabas  ?  Why  De  Voeux  told 
me  there  was  not  one  yet  in  England  ;  that  it  was  only  men- 
tioned in  the  last  "  Revue  Fashionable.''^ 

LADY  ALICE. 

Neither  there  is,  save  and  except  mine.  It  was  sent  me 
by  that  dear  comtesse  de  Crevecoeur. 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (in  a  pointed  tone.) 

Dear,  indeed  !  She  was  near  costing  some  folks  very 
dearly. 

LADY  ALICE. 

If  foolish  boys  will  fall  in  love  with  women  older  than 
their  mothers,  they  must  take  the  consequences. 

MISS   DAMER. 

I  don't  think  my  brother  w^ould  have  thought  of  her,  if 
she  had  not,  as  papa  says,  thrown  out  lights.  [Eyiter  Alex- 
andrine with  the  cabas.]  Was  there  ever  any  thing  so 
pretty  !  so  new  !   so  simple  I     What  is  it  made  of? 

LADY  ALICE,  (taking  out  a  rose-coloured  paper.) 

Here  is  the  countess's  own  charming  letter,  and  descrip- 
tion of  it.     Shall  I  read  it  ? 

OMNES. 

By  all  means. 

[Every  one  pauses  from  work  to  listen.] 

LADY  ALICE,  (reads.) 
"  Voila !    votre   cabas,   chere   belle, — mot  disgracieux   h 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  37 

prononcer,  mais  objet  a  faire  fureur,  ici.  Je  vous  I'envoye 
en  paille,  tressee  au  jour,  doublee  en  soire  rose,  moiree. 
C'est  tres  simple,  mais  c'est  distinguee.  Le  cadeau  de 
noces,  donne  par  le  Tellier,  (riche  Banquier,)  h  sa  fille,  qui 
vient  d'epouser  le  Prince  de  Potemkin,  etoit  un  cabas  en 
resille  de  cordonnet  blanc,  ayant,  en  place  de  chaque  neoud, 
de  la  maille,  una  tourquoise ;  I'interieur  double  au  moire 
bleu  celeste ;  et  au  bout,  deux  superbes  glands,  melanges  de 
crepines  blanches,  et  a  tilet  en  perles." 

MISS  FANNY. 
Well,  I  do  not  understand  one  word  of  all  that.    [A  laugh.] 

MISS   DAMER. 
What  !  you  do  not  understand  that  ? 

MISS   FANNY. 
No  ;   I  don't  know  what  is  resille^  nor  maille^  nor  crepinc. 

MRS.  PRIMMER. 

Well,  she  is  quite  right.  All  the  new  phrases  of  the 
work-table  are  very  difficult.  My  French  governess  is 
going  to  publish  a  *■''  dictionaire  de  taplsserie,  et  d^ouvrages 
ingenus  et  amusants.  I  hope  )"ou  will  all  give  your  names 
to  her  list  of  subscribers. 

MISS  DAMER,  (impatiently.) 

Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure  ;  but  pray  go  on,  Alice.  I  do  so 
like  such  letters.  Well  !  and  the  fashions  ?  Is  it  really 
true  that  hoops  are  coming  back,  as  the  'petit  Courier  says  ? 

LADY  ALICE. 

Oh,  she  is  quite  eloquent  about  tourneurs, — "  Les  tour- 
neurs  baleinees  sont  passes,  comme  le  terns  du  bon  Roi 
Dagobert.  Et  les  etofles,  employes  par  Victorine,  sont  plus 
souples,  et  ne  font  aucun  bruit." 

MISS   FANNY,  (emphatically.) 
That  is  an  advantage,  Mrs.  Townley  Durwin's  tourneur 
16* 


38  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

creaks  like  an  old  gate.     {They  all  laugh.]     Well,  go  or, 
Alice. 

LADY  ALICE,  (reads.) 

"  Mais  actuellement  on  vient  d'adopter  le  systeme  d'un 
mechaniqae  perfectione  par  I'experience,  d'un  petit  resort 
qui  fait  gonfler  oii  aplater  la  tourneur,  a  volonte.  Jugez 
quel  commodite  pour  les  voitures,  oii  le  volume  de  notre 
parure  tient  beaucoup  plus  de  place,  que  nous  memes.  Les 
maris  en  rafoUent ;  et  plusieurs  vont  dans  la  meme  voiture 
^vec  leurs  femmes,  meme  aux  bals  pares." 

MISS  DAMER. 
'Tis  a  great  invention  ;   I'll  make  Carson  write  for  one. 

MISS  FANNY,  (laughing.) 

Dear,  I  should  so  like  to  have  one  !  I  should  always  be 
playing  with  the  springs. 

MISS  WILKINSON. 
Sq  should  I. 

MRS.  PRIMMER. 

It's  all  preposterous.  There  is  some  taste  and  dignit)^  too, 
in  hoops.  They  belonged  to  the  best  times,  when  religion 
and  morality  were  still  in  fashion  ;  and  they  distinguished 
women  of  rank  from  the  canaille.  None  of  the  lower  orders 
could  wear  hoops.     It  was  like  the  rouge,  a  mark  of  quality. 

MISS  DAMER. 

So  mamma  says  ;  but  it's  all  nonsense.  All  fashions  are 
the  best,  while  they  are  fashions. 

MISS  FANNY,  (in  consternation.) 

Oh  my  !  If  I  haven't  taken  five  threads,  instead  of  two. 
My  dog's  tail  looks  like  a  feather  fan.  Oh  !  what  shall  I  do, 
Mrs.  Pjimmer  ? 


yo 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  39 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (petulantly.) 

Why  you  giddy  thing  !     How   often  I  have  told  you,  that 
u  cannot  talk  and  work  at  the  same  time. 

[Takes  the  frame,  pots  on  her  glasses,  and  endeavours  to  remedy  the 
fault.  Laly  Alice,  wholly  absorbed  in  the  contents  of  her  French 
letter,  throws  herself  in  her  chair.  Tiie  rest  of  the  ladies  work  a. 
tout  outrance.  They  appear  to  have  quite  forgotten  the  occupants 
of  the  arm-chair  by  the  tire-side. 

[enter  servants  with  coffee.] 

MISS  DAMER. 

Don't  awaken  mamma,  Wilson.     You   know   she  never 
takes  coffee. 

[She  perceives  that  Mrs.  O'Neal  is  not  asleep,  and  makes  signals  to 
her  own  party.  Servant  presents  coffee  to  Lady  Alice,  and  then 
to  the  other  ladies,  according  to  precedence.  The  young  ladies  fill 
their  cups  with  quantities  of  hot  cream,  with  which  they  wash  down 
quantities  of  muuillettes.j 

MISS  DAMER,  (insolently.) 

Miss  Wilkinson,  don't   detain  the  cream  all  night ;  you 
see  Mrs.  O'Neal  has  not  got  any. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

Thank  you  Miss  Damer  ;  I  never  take  cream  at  night  with 
my  coffee. 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (in  an  ironical  under  tone.) 

In  France,  you  know,  my  dear,  nobody  takes  milk  with 
coffee.     [A  general  smile.] 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (drily.) 
Don't  you  approve  of  that,  Mrs.  Primmer  ? 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (a  little  fluttered.) 

Who,  I,  ma'am  ?  I  don't  much  approve  of  the  French,  or 
their  fashions,  in  any  sort  or  way. 


40  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (smiling.) 

What !  not  of  their  cabas,  de  resille  de  cordonnet  blanc,  or 
their  tourncurs  viechaniques  a  resort  ? 

MISS  DAMER,  (in  alow  voice.) 
Did  you  ever  !  I  guessed  it  was  a  weasle's  sleep. 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (bridling  like  one  of  Richardson's  "  charmers  ;"  the 
young  ladies  nudge  each  other.) 

I  admire  the  French,  madam,  in  matters  of  mere  taste; 
but  I  hate  their  principles,  their  morals,  their  politics,  and 
their  want  of  all  religion. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

Under  which  of  these  categories  do  you  place  their  not 
taking  cream  with  their  cofiee  ? 

[Lady  Alice  makes  a  sign  with  her  head  to  Mrs.  Primmer  not  to  an- 
swer ;  who  colours  with  resentment.] 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (placing  her  cup  on  the  salver.) 

For  my  own  part,  I  think  if  the  French  are  deficient  in 
any  one  point,  it  is  in  matters  of  mere  taste  ;  of  which 
the  caprices  in  their  fashions  are  proofs.  In  all  that  depends 
on  the  mind,  upon  intellectual  development,  they  may  be 
trusted.  Their  habits  generally  are  admirable,  healthful, 
rational,  and  sober.  The  addiction  of  the  higher  classes  un- 
der the  old  regime  to  frivolity,  I  give  up  ;  with  the  foilettcs, 
tourneurs,  and  cabas,  of  modern  times  :  but,  [with  ajf'ected 
emphasis  and  gravity, '\  I  must  plead  for  their  wisdom,  in  not 
loading  their  quintessential  coffee  w^ith  thick  cream.  After 
a  full  dinner,  coffee  is  not  taken  by  them  as  a  meal,  but  as  a 
fillip  to  exhilirate  the  spirits  and  promote  digestion,  which 
the  cream  would  prevent. 

MRS.  PRLMMER,  (insolently.) 

I  am  not  prepared,  ma'am,  to  discuss  the  almanac  des 
gourmands  w^ith  you,  nor  to  give  a  medical  dissertation  on 
the  subject.  Women,  and  young  women  especially,  have 
nothing  to  do  with  such  pursuits. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  41 


MRS.  O'NEAL. 

I  am  aware  that  such  things  do  not  enter  into  female  edu- 
cation in  England,  (of  which,  however,  gourmandise  prac- 
tically forms  a  leading  feature,  from  the  very  cradle.) 
But  I  think  it  would  be  as  well  if  young  people  were  better 
taught  how  much  of  health,  happiness,  and  even  of  beauty, 
depends  upon  certain  habits  of  life.  There  is  no  cosmetic 
like  a  good  digestion  ;  and  there  is  no  temper  nor  heart  that 
will  resist  a  bad  one. 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (much  offended.) 

English  young  ladies  of  fashion,  madam,  are  brought  up 
with  notions  of  delicacy,  unknown  to  French  girls.  They 
never  think  upon  such  subjects;  much  less  speak  of  them  in 
company. 

[The  young  ladies  exchange  looks  of  disapprobation  at  the  very  idea.] 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (with  an  air  of  humorous  surprise.) 
What  subjects  ? 

MRS.  PRLMMER,  (with  modest  hesitation.) 

Why — di-gestion,  madam  ;  I  don't  think,  my  dears,  you 
ever  heard  the  word  before,  at  least  never  from  me,  I  am 
sure. 

YOUNG  LADIES,  (eagerly  and  in  a  breath.) 
Never,  never,  never  ! 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (opening  her  eyes.) 

No!  Is  that  possible?  What  culpable  neglect!  what 
blameable  ignorance  ! 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (indignantly.) 

Ignorance,  madam,  ignorance  ! — Ignorance  ma'am  is  one 
thing,  innocence  another  ; — I,  at  least,  who  have  had  the 
honour  of  educating  Lady  Alice  Moniford,  and  her  sister 
the  Duchess  of  Dullwhosehe,  and  Miss  Damer,  have  made 
a  point  of  instilling  nothing  that  can  detract  from  a  perfect 
purity  of  mind,  and  innocence  of  character. 


^  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 


MRS.  O'NEAL. 

Humph  !  Apropos  to  instilling, — did  you  ever,  Mrs. 
prinamer,  by  way  of  experiment,  try  to  distil  any  thing  out 
of  the  female  mind  ?  To  express  its  natural  tedencies,  in- 
stead of  mpressing  and  repressing  them  ?  Do  you  know  I 
have  often  thought  such  an  experiment  would  be  worth 
attempting. 


Madam  ? 


MRS.  PRIMMER,  (confused.) 


MRS.  O'NEAL. 


As,  for  instance  :  if  you  would  draw  from  the  rose  its 
atar,  you  woald  distil  it;  or  to  get  at  the  perfume  of  the  vio- 
lot,  you  would  e.Tpress  the  precious  odour.  You  would  not 
instil  or  impress  either  with  foreign  scents — you  w^ould  not 
surely  deluge,  either,  with  Hungary  water,  or  eau  de  Co- 
logne ;  to  make  all  smell  alike,  all  equally  fade  and  artiii- 
cial. 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (contemptously.) 

I  dare  say  this  is  very  clear  to  you,  madam  ;  but  really  / 
do  not  understand  it. 

[She  looks  sneeringly  at  her  eleves,  who  sneer  responsively.] 


MRS.  O'NEAL. 

Oh  !  it  is  all  very  simple,  and  goes  to  this  ;  that  there  is 
a  jargon  which  it  is  high  time  should  lose  its  currency,  and 
of  which  young  women  are  victims,  and  their  ignorant 
mothers  the  dupes.  Young  people,  especially  young  women, 
from  never  knowing  the  precise  meaning  of  words,  grow  up 
without  one  precise  idea  on  any  subject.  This  instillation  of 
sounds,  and  impression  of  barren  generalities,  is  carried  so 
far,  that  the  pupil  is  left  incapable  of  independant  thought  or 
action, — unfitted  alike  for  self-direction,  or  the  care  of  others  ; 
precisely  what  Pope  meant,  when  he  said,  "  Most  women 
have  no  character  at  all." 


MRS.  PRIMMER. 
I  beg  to  say,  Mrs.  O'Neal,  these  young  ladies  have  not 


THE    EASTER   RECESS. 


been  educated  to  listen  to  such  matters.  They  have  not  been 
intended  for  physicians,  nor  for  French  philosophers, — for 
learned  ladies,  or  blue  stockinets. 


o 


MRS.  O'NEAL,  (falling  back  in  her  chair,  and  resuming  her  book.) 

Oh  !  possibly. 

[Enter  Wilson  wilh  a  packet,  which  he  presents  to  Miss  Darner ; 
while  other  servants,  in  long  file,  bring  the  tea  equipage.  A  table- 
cloth is  laid  on  a  distant  table  ;  and  two  French  maids,  elegantly 
dressed,  with  white  glov<  s,  &c..  commence  the  elaborate  process  of 
tea-making,  assisted  by  the  page,  and  a  groom  of  the  chambers, 
who,  like  Tom  Jones,  "  might  be  mistaken  for  a  lord,  by  those  who 
never  saw  one." 


MISS  DAMER,  (unfolding  an  acre  of  canvas,  partly  worked,  and  entirely 
drawn  and  shaded.) 

What  have  we  here  ? 


MISS  FANNY. 
O  gracious  !  How  beautiful !  ^ 

MISS  WILKINSON. 
What  is  it  ?  O,  how  beautiful  ! 

MISS  FANNY. 

A  Turk's  head  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  ;  don't  you  think 
so,  Emma  ? 

MISS  WILKINSON. 
Well,  I  am  sure,  it  is  very  like  a  Turk's  head  ! 

MRS.  PRIMMER. 

My  dear  Fanny,  how  can  you  be  so  foolish  !  Don't  you 
see  that  it  is  an  elephant  ?  Miss  Damer,  read  De  Vceux' 
note,  love  : — he  will  tell  us  all  about  it. 

MISS  DAMER,  (reads.) 

*'  Hypolite  de  Voeux  presents  his  respects  to  Miss  Damer ; 
takes  the  liberty  of  forwarding  the  last  new  pattern  for  a  tapis- 


44  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

serie  de  canape,  being  an  accurate  portrait  of  the  royal  ele- 
phant, the  celebrated  Mam'selle  Djeck,  to  match  Miss  Darner's 
giraffe.  De  Voeux  sends  the  shades  of  lamb's-wool  requisite. 
Body  and  trunk  in  grey  ;  grounding  in  sea-green,  to  repre- 
sent an  Indian  jungle  ;  to  be  worked  in  cross-stitch,  picked 
off  in  silver.  Housings  in  double  gobble,  crimson  shaded  in 
gold.  De  Voeux  incloses  six  bobbins  of  gold  and  silver ; 
eight  shades  of  white,  and  ten  of  black.  De  "Vceux  presumes 
to  forward  a  memorandum  of  his  little  bill  for  last  year.  De 
Vceux  has  for  sale,  (being  part  of  the  Duchesse  de  Berri's 
meuble  de  broderie,)  a  beautiful  lady's  marqueterie  work-box, 
and  a  large  lady's  work-table,  with  the  Duchesse's  own 
metier  d  ressort,  ivory  inlaid  with  brass,  en  bhul ;  to  be  raffled 
for,  (if  not  sold  by  private  contract,  before  the  eighth  of  next 
month,)  at  ten  guineas  a  ticket." 

MISS  DAMER. 

Dear  !  I  must  have  that  box.  I  have  been  longing  all  my 
life  for  a  marqueterie  box.  It  is  such  very  good  taste  ;  and 
one  is  so  tired  of  mother-of-pearl,  or  or-molu ;  and  of  those 
vulgar  petit  Dunkerque  musical  boxes. 

[Miss  Wilkinson  sighs.] 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (looking  over  the  bill.) 

My  dear,  had  you  not  better  pay  this  bill  first  ?  Twenty- 
five  pounds  eighteen  and  eleven-pence  halfpenny.  It  is  a 
great  deal !  I  am  sure  De  Voeux  overcharges.  I  wish  you 
would  go  back  to  Gotty  and  Wilkinson.  Here  is  ten  pounds 
for  gold  and  silver  thread  alone  ;  and  here  are  fifty  skeins  of 
Wellington  blue  silk  !     What  could  you  use  all  that  for  ? 

MISS  DAMER,  (petulantly,  and  taking  the  bill  out  of  her  hand.) 

Why,  for  working  my  peacock's  tail.  My  dear  Mrs.  P. 
how  tiresome  you  are  !  [Rumples  the  bill,  and  throws  it  into 
her  basket.  Mrs.  Primmer  draws  up  ;  and  Miss  Darner  throws 
her  arms  round  her  necli,  and  caresses  her.'\  Well,  now,  I 
beg  your  pardon  ;  but  you  know,  you  say,  troubling  oneself 
about  any  thing  after  dinner  makes  one's  nose  red. 

MISS  FANNY. 

Then  I'm  sure  Emma  Wilkinson  troubles  herself  very 
much.     Only  look  at  her  nose,  now !     Did  you  ever  ? 


THE    EASTER    RECESS. 


MRS.  PRIMMER,  (authoritatively.) 


45 


My  dear,  you  ought  to  use  cold  cream  to  your  face  in  the 
morning,  and  drink  cellery  tea.  I  always  give  my  young 
ladies  cellery  tea  for  any  little  redness  in  the  face. 

[The  young  ladies  are  affain  settled  at  work.  A  great  clatter  of  tea- 
things,  and  hissing  of  iirns.  Lady  Elizabeth  begins  to  revive,  and 
rub  her  eyes.     Mrs.  O'Neal  is  buried  in  her  book.] 

MISS  FANNY. 
Mrs.  P.  love,  what  is  it  makes  the  nose  red  ? 

MRS.  PRIMMER. 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five. 

[Counting  her  stitches,] 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (aside.) 
That's  a  poser  ! 

MISS  FANNY. 
It  is  so  vulgar  ! 

[Mrs.  Primmer  reckons  her  meshes :  Fanny  nudges  her  arm.] 

MRS.  PRIMMER. 

What  ?  Dear  me,  you've  made  me  miss  my  count !  How- 
can  you  talk  such  nonsense,  and  ask  such  silly  questions  ? 
There  are  a  thousand  things  that  cannot  be  accounted  for. 

MRS.  ONEAL,  (half  to  herself) 

Which  makes  it  an  imperative  duty  to  explain  those  which 
may. 

MISS  FANNY,  (turning  quickly  round  to  her.) 

Can  yow  tell  me,  Mrs.  O'Neal  ?  I  really  want  to  know  ; 
for  I  hate  a  red  nose  beyond — beyond.  I  am  always  afraid 
of  catching  it  from  Emma.  Now,  what  would  cure  Emma's 
nose  ;  Mrs.  O'Neal  ? 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

I  think,  if  Miss  Wilkinson  did  not  take  so  much  hot  cream 

17 


46  THE  EASTER  RECESS. 

at  night,  it  would  spare  her  the   trouble  of  applying  cold 
cream  in  the  morning. 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (much  mortified.) 

Well,  Miss  Fanny  ;  now  your  very  important  question  is 
answered  so  very  learnedly,  I  hope  you  will  change  the 
subject, 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Primmer,  I  think  it  is  a  very  impor- 
tant question.  A  red  nose  is  a  sign  of  ill  health,  or  of  in- 
temperance ;  and  therefore  I  agree  with  Miss  Fanny,  that 
it  is  vulgar  ;  for,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  ill  health  is  the  re- 
sult of  ignorance  ;  and  ignorance  or  intemperance  are  great 
elements  of  vulgarity,  all  over  the  world. 

[The  groom  of  the  Chambers  approaches  Lady  Elizabeth  with  a  pla- 
teau of  tea,  followed  by  a  servant  with  a  salver  of  bon-bons.} 

MISS  FANNY,  (to  Miss  Wilkinson,  in  a  whisper.) 
Well,  I  do  think,  as   Papa   says,  Mrs.   O'Neal  is  very 
amusing,  somehow. 

MISS  WILKINSON. 
So  do  I — somehow  ! 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (helping  herself  abundantly  ;  being  assisted  by 
Mrs.  Primmer  to  furnish  a  small  table,  which  is  placed  near  her.) 

Oh,  dear !  I  believe  I  have  been  dozing, — a  little  ! 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (in  a  toady-ing  lone.) 
I  trust  you  have  refreshed  yourself.     I  thought  dear  Lady 
Elizabeth,  you  had  a  very  fatigued  air  at  dinner. 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (emphatically.) 
Well,  I  was  very  fatigued.    That  drive  to  Lord  Leasowe's 
in  the  morning, — (nothing  makes  me  so  drowsy  as  the  mo- 
tion of  a  carriage  ;)  and  we  sat  so  very  late  at  dinner.     It 
does  make  one  so  very  heavy  ! 

MRS.  PRIMMER. 

So  it  does,  ma'am.     Try  this   brioche  ;  it  is  so  light  and 
wholesome  after  dinner. 


THE   EASTER   RECESS.  47 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (much  revived  by  a  very  strong  cup  of  green  tea.) 

Oh,  Mrs.  O'Neal  !  Still  at  your  book  !  How  very  fond 
of  reading  j^ou  must  be  !    Do  you  never  work,  Mrs.  O'Neal? 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
I  have  never  leisure  to  work,  Lady  Elizabeth. 

[A  general  titter  round  the  work-table.] 

MISS   DAMER. 
That  smells  of  Ireland  a  little. 

LADY  ALICE. 
Rather ! 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (overhearing  them  and  smiling.) 

It  sounds  like  a  bull ;  but  it  is  a  fact.  Before  one  can 
spare  time  to  sit  down  for  four  or  five  hours  a  day,  to  cover 
leagues  of  canvas  with  silk  thread  or  worsted,  to  dot  pin- 
cushions, or  caricature  the  arts  by  attempting  to  represent 
something  that  never  existed  in  nature,  one  must  have  more 
leisure,  as  well  as  more  money,  to  throw  away,  than  I  ever 
had  to  dispose  of. 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 

Oh  !  but  as  my  aunt,  the  dowager  Duchess,  (who  worked 
forty-eight  chairs,  four  sofas,  six  carpers,  and  two  state-beds,) 
used  to  say,  you  can  work  when  you  can  do  nothing  else. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

But  when  is  it  that  you  can  do  nothing  else? 

MISS  DAMER. 
In  society,  for  instance  ;  you  can  work  and  talk  too. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

I  rarely  see  that  the  cage :  counting  stitches,  taking  up 
threads,  matching  shades,  and  copying  patterns,  with  eyes 
rivetted,  heads  poked,  shoulders  bent,  chest  contracted,  and 


48  THE  EASTER  RECESS. 

the  mind  fixed  on  the  most  trifling  objects,  is  a  strenuous 
occupation,  which  I  do  not  think  leaves  much  possibility  of 
talking-.  To  talk  even  nonsense,  (pleasant  nonsense,  I 
mean.)  you  must  have  ideas  of  some  sort ;  and  ideas  are 
only  to  be  acquired  through  knowledge.  Gobble-stitch  gives 
none.  To  talk  well,  you  must,  moreover,  sit  at  ease.  An 
easy  chair  is  the  sibyl's  tripod ;  for  when  the  body  reposes, 
the  mind  is  free  to  make  its  most  gracious  excursions.  At- 
tention is  then  undivided  ;  the  spirits  are  concentrated ;  and 
a  pleasant  woman,  sunk  in  her  fauteuil,  gives  out  even  her 
"  infinite  deal  of  nothings,^'  with  a  more  powerful  effect  on 
her  auditors,  than  can  be  attained  by  the  most  finished  coquet, 
who  dovetails  her  "yeas"  and  "nays,"  with  "take  two 
threads,  and  drop  one," — "  Dear  !  I  have  missed  a  whole 
row," — or,  "  O  my  !  if  I  have  not  shaded  my  hussar's 
whiskers  with  Wellington  blue ;  and  given  my  angel  a 
black  eye !" 

[Lady  Elizabeth,  Miss  Fanny,  and  Miss  Wilkinson  laugh.    The  two 

latter  insensibly  drop  their  work  ;  the  others  remain  sullenly  silent, 

and  work  with  redoubled  diligence.] 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 

Well,  you  are  so  very  amusing,  as  my  lord  says ;  and 
such  a  very  droll  mimic.     Who  did  you  mimic  then  ? 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

Nobody  in  particular ;  but  working  misses  and  ladies  in 
general.  I  never  touch  on  individuals,  only  on  classes  ; — 
hit  folly  as  it  flies  ;  never  the  fool,  who  unconsciously  sits 
for  me. 

LADY  ALICE,  (to  Mrs.  Primmer.) 

She  is  quite  too  impertinent.  My  aunt  is  rightly  served 
for  letting  such  persons  into  her  intimate  society.  We  shall 
all  be  booked,  you  may  depend  upon  it. 

[Mrs.  Primmer  nods  assent,  and  counts  her  meshes.  Miss  Darner 
whispers  her,  (a  very  vulgar  habit  with  great  young  ladies.)  They 
both  laugh  affectedly  and  contemptuously.] 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 

But  I  think,  Mrs.  O'Neal,  women  of  a  certain  rank  have 
always  been  such  workers, — formerly,  you  know,  when  there 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  49 

was  a  court.  Duchess  Catherine,  there,  (as  we  call  her,)  in 
the  blue  velvet,  over  the  library  door,  [poi?Lts  to  the  picture  ;] 
(she  was  first  lady  of  the  bed-chamber  to  dueen  Anne) 

MISS  FANNY,  (interrupting) 
Mamma,  what  does  that  really  mean  ? 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 

Why  it  means  that — first  lady  of  the  bedchamber. 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (drily.) 

Exactly — a  lady  who  fills  the  office  of  a  chambermaid; 
and,  in  the  good  old  times, — when  it  was  a  distinction  to 
occupy  the  most  servile  stations  near  the  person  of  princes, — 
actually  performed  its  functions. 

MISS  FANNY,  (laughing.) 
Dear,  how  odd  !    Well,  and  did  Duchess  Catherine  sweep 


rooms,  or  w 


hat? 


MRS.  PRIMMER, 


Dear  Fanny,  you  know  very  well  that  great  ladies,  in  the 
Queen's  service,  do  nothing,  but  stand  about  her,  or  sit,  if 
she  gives  them  leave.  Duchess  Catherine,  I  have  heard 
your  ladyship  say,  was  a  great  tapestry  worker — one  of  the 
most  eminent  in  dueen  Anne's  court ;  and  worked  footstools 
for  most  of  the  sovereigns  of  Europe,  particularly  for  the 
Court  of  Versailles. 

[Lady  Elizabeth  nods  and  sips  her  tea.] 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

British  women  of  rank  might,  I  imagine,  be  better  em- 
ployed than  in  working  footstools  for  despots  and  their  state 
mistresses  ;  but  on  this  point  the  British  aristocracy  are  not 
particular  ;  and  had  not  the  two  last  Georges,  you  know, 
been  the  most  moral  and  religious  of  men,  and  so  saved  their 
valiant  peers  and  high-minded  peeresses  from  the  temptation 
of  toady-ing  the  Sultana  of  the  day,  there  is  no  knowing  but 
the  scenes  of  Whitehall,  and  of  "  iXelly's  lodging,"  might 
have  been  repeated  at  Windsor  or  Brighton. 

17* 


50  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (to  Lady  Alice.) 
What  very  improper  conversation  ! 

[Lady  Alice  tosses  her  head  in  contemptuous  assent.] 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (stupidly.) 
Well,  it  is  very  true  ;  the  foreign   courts  are  so  very  im- 
moral.    My  aunt,  Lady  Betty  Montfort,  used  to  say,  there 
Avas  no  virtue  or  religion  out  of  England.     [Yawns.] 

MRS.  PRIMMER. 
No,  to  be  sure  !  the  British  court  has  always  been  a  pat- 
tern.     The  court  of  Glueen  Anne,  in  which  your  ladyship's 
ancestress  flourished,  was  celebrated  for  its  purity.     It  was  a 
great  age — the  Augustan  age,  it  was  called. 


MISS  FANNY. 
In  whose  reign  did  Queen  Anne  live  ? 


[Mrs.  Primmer  frowns.] 


MRS.  O'NEAL,  (laughing.) 
In  James  the  First's,  if  you  believe  the  Jacobites  !  but  really 
in  that  of  Sarah  of  Marlborough,  and  Mrs.  Masham,  or  their 
factions.  The  ladies  of  her  day  were  coarse  and  uneducated, 
and  the  jargon  of  her  court  would  shock  the  bon  ton  of  a  mod- 
ern steward's  room,  and  would  scarcely  be  tolerated  in  the 
servant's  hall. 

MISS  DAMER,  (in  a  whisper  to  Mrs.  Primmer.) 
Did  you  ever  ? 

MRS.  PRIMMER. 
Never,  never  I 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 

But  they  did  work  so  very  beautifully  in  Q,ueen  Anne's 
time,  as  Lady  Betty  used  to  say. 

MRS.  O'NEAL, 

Queen  Anne  very  early  lost  her  sight,  and  introduced  ta- 
pestry work,  as  requiring  no  very  delicate  vision. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  51 


MISS  FANNY. 


Did  no  one  embroider  before  Queen  Anne's  time,  Mrs. 
O'Neal  ? 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Wby,  works  that  require  neither  taste,  talent,  nor  study, 
and  are  suited  to  the  lowest  capacities,  and  the  most  indolent 
habits,  have  always  been  pursued  whenever  the  ignorance  of 
the  women,  and  their  false  position  in  society,  have  left  them 
no  choice  of  occupation.  Were  I  a  Tory  minister,  I  would 
bring  in  a  bill  for  the  encouragement  of  tapestry-working, 
and  make  it  a  ministerial  measure.  I  would  make  reading, 
among  the  women,  penal  ;  and  by  turning  their  minds  on 
lamb's-wool  and  gobble-stitch  all  day,  would  insure  their  talk- 
ing nonsense  on  politics  all  night. 

[Miss  Fanny  and  Miss  Wilkinson  laugh  without  well  knowing  why.J 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (very  angrily.) 

You  laugh,  young  ladies  ;  but  you  are  not  aware  that  all 
this  is  Jacobinism. 

MISS  FANNY,  (gravely.) 

Indeed !  well  I  never  knew  before  what  jacobinism  was. 
But  do  you  know,  I  think  it  so  very  amusing.  Don't  you, 
Emma  ? 

MISS  WILKINSON. 
Oh  !  so  very  amusing  ! 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 

Bat  I  should  like  to  know  so  very  much,  what  you  would 
have  girls  to  do,  when  they  don't  work,  particularly  in  a 
morning  :  you  know  there  are  those  very  long  mornings, 
from  breakfast  till  luncheon  ; — after,  it  is  easy  enough — one 
rides  or  drives  till  seven  ;  and  then  the  dressing,  and  things. 
But  those  long  mornings  !  they  are  so  very  long  !  [  Yaions.'\ 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (with  great  animation.) 
Oh  !  those  very  long  mornings  are  glorious  things,  Lady 
Elizabeth  !     \^After  ajpause,  her  imaginatiou  mounting,  and 


53  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

forgetting  the  fools  she  is  talking  to.']  O  the  freshness,  the 
vigour  of  those  long  mornings  !  Heahh  under  arms  ;  spirits 
free  from  artificial  excitement;  the  mind,  like  the  frame,  rest- 
ed, refreshed,  in  the  fullest  possession  of  all  its  powers.  The 
petty  passions  of  the  evenings,  with  the  many  uneasy  sensa- 
tions generated  by  a  false  and  vicious  system  of  society,  all  at 
rest !  It  is  in  these  long  mornings  that  the  divine  arts  go 
forth  in  search  of  immortality,  at  the  call  of  Fame.  Then 
Painting,  with  her  bright  intensity  of  gaze,  plants  the  easel, 
and  seizes  the  pencil,  destined  to  perpetuate  the  passing  in- 
spiration through  the  far-distant  ages  !  Then  Music,  with  her 
upturned  eyes,  sweeps  the  harp,  and  breathes  the  song,  which, 
in  other  times  and  places,  is  to  enrapture  thousands.  Then 
genius,  concentrated  and  creative,  embodies  the  image,  or 
discovers  the  truth,  which  will  delight  the  world,  or  serve  it. 
Oh  !  the  morning,  the  morning !  the  spring  of  day  and  of  daily 
life,  there  is  nothing  like  the  morning  ! 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (starting  from  an  incipient  slumber.) 
Then  you  really  do  not  like  lamb's-wool  tapestry  ! 

A  VOICE  AT  MRS.  O'NEAL'S  EAR. 
What  a  bathos  ! 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (turning  round,  and  seeing  Cecil  Howard  behind  her 

chair.) 

Oh !  you  are  there,  you  charmer  !  I  little  thought  I  had 
such  an  auditor. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
You  little  deserve  such  an  auditor.     Look  at  the  class,  I 
beseech  you,  that  you  are  holding  forth  to. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

I  was  not  conscious  that  T  was  holding  forth,  as  you  call  it, 
at  all. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 

O  yes  !  cela  vous  est  egal.  I  have  seen  Madame  de  Stael 
standing,  like  the  Pythian  priestess,  and  twirling  her  sprig 
of  laurel,  while  she  gave  out  such  charming  things  to  gaping 
dulness  !    The  besetting  sin  of  genius  is  this  want  of  tact. 


THE    EA.STER    RECESS.  5S 

MRS.  O'xXEAL. 

A  sweeping  accusation,  and  not  applicable  to  me  ;  because 
I  am  not  a  genius, — not  Madame  de  Stael  ;  and,  moreover,  I 
think  I  happen  to  have  a  good  deal  of  tact.  But  je  fais  mes 
farces ;  and  amuse  myself,  when  I  cannot  amuse  others. 
When  I  get  among  the  shallows,  I  like  to  set  the  little 
minnows  fluttering  and  spluttering,  by  a  dip  into  thought,  or 
a  soar  into  fancy ;  and  then,  what  staring  and  sneering,  and 
"  Did-you-evers  !" 

CECIL  HOWARD. 

Well,  you  do  Avrong  !  What  to  you  is  sport,  or  impulse, 
to  them  is  ridicule.  Every  thing  out  of  the  little  circle  of 
diurnal  fashion  is,  to  them,  absurd,  or  wicked,  or  both. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

Perhaps  ; — but  what  would  you  have  of  women  educated 
by  the  Mrs.  Primmers  ? 

CECIL  HOWARD. 

Or  born  of  the  Lady  Elizabeths  ? 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (with  yivacity.) 

Oh  !  if  you  get  upon  race,  I  am  lost !  It  is  my  theory, 
my  system,  my  church.  "  Mere  Ecrevisse  et  sa  fille,"  is 
the  illustration  of  my  whole  creed  upon  that  all-important 
subject.  It  is  my  last ;  so  don't  tempt  me.  I  must  learn,  at 
your  dictation,  to  "  consult  the  genius  of  the  place  in  all ;" 
and  not  go  back  to  first  principles,  where  even  their  last 
results  are  not  understood.  This  is  difficult  enough  ; — to  me 
sometimes  impossible.  For  I  have  a  sort  of  barrel-organ 
mind ; — wind  it  up,  who  may,  forth  comes  the  Gregorian 
chaunt,  or  the  Irish  lilt,  as  accident  determines ; — time, 
place,  and  persons,  all  going  for  nothing. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 

That,  I  suspect,  is  the  secret  of  your  agreeability,  and  of — 
your  indiscretion.  Alas  !  that  those  barrel-organs  should 
ever  get  out  of  order,  move  slowly,  and  stop  !— that  the  fire- 
fly mind  of  an  high  organization  should  become  as  dull  and 
dreary  as  one  of  us  I 


54  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Oh  !  that  "  us  !  "  that  fatal  "  us  !  "  It  is  the  conviction  of 
the  supremacy  of  that  us  which  makes  you  dull,  and  keeps 
you  so.  It  is  that  social  exclusion  from  your  species,  which 
draws  you  out  of  the  pale  of  humanity,  and  leaves  you  be- 
yond its  sympathies,  and  ignorant  of  its  relations  and  its  in- 
terests. 

CECIL  HOWARD,  (sighing.) 
There  is  something  in  that : — but  we  want  motives. 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (quickly  and  petulantly.) 
Oh  !  you  want  much  more  than  motives.  I  will  tell  ^oio 
a  little  secret,  which  to  the  mass  of  society  is  none  :  you  of 
the  *'  ■M'5,"  of  "  the  order^^^  want  regeneration,  "  reforming 
altogether."  The  sap  and  vigour  of  the  original  stock,  that 
sent  forth  the  first  bold  shoots,  is  exhausted.  The  physical 
and  moral  energies  which  took  plebeian  worth  out  of  the 
*'  common  roll  of  men,"  and  raised  it  to  prompt  pre-emi- 
nence, is  no  heir-loom !  it  must  be  fed  and  perpetuated  by 
other  accidents  than  those  which  men  who  live  in  clubs  and 
cabs  are  liable  to. 

CECIL  HOWARD,  (languidly  and  looking  round  him.) 
Don't  speak  so  loud,  child.  What  you  say  is  clever,  and 
perhaps  true ;  but  what  /  complain  of  is  not  only  the  mal- 
apropos of  your  diatribe,  here,  but  your  petulance,  your 
earnestness  of  manner  :  the  thorough-bred  never  speak  loud, 
and  are  never  petulant. 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (impatiently.) 
The  thorough-bred    horse   is  ! — Petulance,    as    you  fine 
people  call  energy,  comes  of  strong  volitions  ;  and  strong 
volitions  of  superior  structure. 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (having  received  a  significant  glance  from  Mrs. 
Primmer.) 

Cecil  Howard,  do  take  my  cup,  will  you,  there's  a  good 
man! 

[Cecil  Howard  sees  the  manceuvre,  and  reluctantly  obeys  the  com- 
mand, dragging  his  "  slow  length  along  ;"  and  then,  to  the  disap- 
pointment of  the  diplomates,  throws  himself  on  a  divan,  before  a 
volume  of  engravings,  and  not  beside  Lady  Alice,  as  was  intended. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  55 

Several  gentlemen  now  loiter  in  : — Lord  Mount  Twaddledom, 
Col.  SxrLEGER,  Mr.  Wilkinson,  Messrs.  Thompson  and  John- 
son, M.  P.'s;  Lord  Dam  er  follows  ;  none  of  the  juniors  appear. 
Col.  St.  Leger  flutters  up  to  the  work-table.  Lord  Mount  Twad- 
dledum  moves  ''noblement  et  avec  dignite,"  (like  Louis  the 
XlVth.)  to  the  same  point;  and  puts  on  his  glasses,  to  examine 
the  tapestry  work.  Mr.  Sullivan,  with  folded  arms,  and  an  air  of 
intense  thought,  places  himself  opposite  to  Lady  Alice.  Messrs. 
Thompson  and  Johnson,  M.  P.'s,  draw  up,  like  the  "  mutes  and 
others"  in  the  last  scene  of  a  tragedy:  Sahib  Wilkinson,  after  a 
reconnoitring  glance  for  the  greatest  Lady  in  the  room,  takes  his 
Btand  behind  Lady  Elizabeth — the  Begum  Sumroo*  of  his  aristo- 
cratic devotion.] 

LORD  DAMER,    (to  the  servant   and  flinging  himself  beside    Mrs. 
O'Neal.) 

Take  coffee  to  the  Billiard-table  room. 

[The  young  ladies  look  round,  disapprovingly;  then  bend  their  swan- 
like necks,  and  continue  to  ground  in  grey,  and  gobble  in  green.] 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

Who  are  your  two  friends,  my  lord,  who  stalk  in  and  out 
together,  like  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstein,  in  Hamlet  ? 

LORD  DAMER. 
Those  are  my  members  for  my  Irish  boroughs. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Oh  !  the  collective  wisdom  of  Ballyborow  and  Bally-po- 
leen  !     So   I  thought !     I   heard  one  of  "  giving  them  his 
honour"  most  emphatically  at  dinner  :    "  Et  dans  ce  mot  Id, 
fai  reconnu  monu  sang^ 

LORD  DAMER,  (smiling.) 
I  assure  you,  they  are  not  the  less  excellent  fellows  for  a 
little  national  peculiarity  ;  though  not  as  gifted,  perhaps,  as 
my  friend  Sullivan  there,  who,  I  predicl,  will  get  up  the 
stick  rapidly.  I  shall  return  him  to  parliament,  and  I  should 
not  wonder  if  some  of  these  days  he  held  one  of  the  very 
highest  situations  in  Ireland. 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (drily.) 
Nor   I — "  rampant   et  mediocre,   et   Von  arrive    d  tout^ 
Besides,  Mr.   Sullivan  has  something  better  than  that — pre- 
sumption ;  which  hazards  all,  and  therefore  must  hit  some- 

*  See  "  Sketches  in  India,"  by  Captain  Mundy. 


56  THE  EASTER    RECESS. 

thing  ;  like  the  habitual  punster,  who  out   of  ten  tiresome 
things,  contrives  now  and  then  to  say  one  good  one. 

LORD  DAMER. 
You  are  very  severe  on  poor  Sullivan  !  you  wits  never 
love  each  other.  But  I  grant  you  Sullivan  has  a  dash  of 
pretension,  which  is  rather  Irish  ;  and  belongs,  I  believe,  to 
the  national  temperament.  My  other  friends  there,  however, 
are  the  reverse.  They  are  merely  honest  Irish  country  gen- 
tlemen. 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (laughs.) 
A  celebrated  Irish  Baronet  of  jobbing  memory,  once  got 
up  in  our  House  of  Commons,  just  after  a  job  of  more  than 
ordinary  audacity ;  and  with  an  air  of  honhommie,  began, 
"  I  present  myself  to  this  Honourable  House  as  an  honest 
Irish  country  gentleman  !  "  Loud  cries  of  oh  !  oh  !  oh  ! 
"  I  say  an  honest — "  "  Oh  !  oh  !  and  "  shame,"  echoed  from 
all  parts.  "  I  say  I  present  myself  as  an  Irish  country  gen- 
tleman." An  immediate — "  Hear  him  !  hear  him  !"  and 
unanimous  cheering,  rewarded  the  amendment.  [Lord 
Darner  laughs.']  Country  gentlemen,  like  other  country 
things,  are  best  in  Smithfield — Honest,  or  dishonest,  ''what 
can  they  argue,  but  from  what  they  know  ?  "  and  how  little 
is  that  ? 

LORD  DAMER. 
Observe,  I  have  not  made  the  eloge  of  their  wisdom,  or 
their  knowledge  ;   I  only  pledge  myself  for  their  honesty. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

Without  doubting,  my  lord,  the  honesty  of  your  legislators, 
"  nate  as  imported,"  I  must  beg  leave  to  say,  that  the  country 
gentlemen  of  Ireland,  (like  the  country  gentlemen  every 
where,)  have  so  many  obstacles  in  the  way  of  their  honesty, 
that  it  is  nothing  less  than  a  miracle,  when  they  preserve  it ; 
and  as  this  is  not  the  age  of  miracles  .... 

LORD  DAMER. 

The  laws  of  nature  will  not  be  violated  in  favour  of  my 

friends, — ha !    ha  !    ha  !     ha !      Well,  I    assure   you,    that 

Johnson,  whom  I  must  present  to  you,  is  reckoned  a  fellow 

of  some  abilities,  and  of  infinite  humour  in   Ireland.     His 


THE     EASTER    RECESS.  57 

mots  a  rirCf  are  in  every  mouth  in  Dublin  ;  and  yet,  when  I 
brought  him  over,  as  the  drollest  fellow  in  the  world,  he 
turned  out  the  dullest  dog  imaginable,  and  disappointed  a 
large  company,  invited  on  purpose  to  hear  him. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Yes,  humour  is  local,  and  there  are  wits  who  are  the  re- 
verse of  prophets,  and  are  never  honoured,  save  in  their  own 
set,  or  country.     But  Johnson  ?  Johnson  ?  this  is  surely  not 
the  ^^  pais  and  grass,''''  Johnson,  is  it? 

LORD  DAMER. 
I  don't  know  the  anecdote.     What  is  it  ? 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Why,  when  a  very  great  lady  visited  Ireland,  on  some 
very  great  occasion  ;  intending  to  feter  a  very  great  person- 
age, in  a  very  great  manner,  she  procured,  as  a  very  great 
treat,  a  very  little  portion  of  petifs  pois,  which  were  served 
up  at  a  guinea  a  pint.  Mr.  Johnson,  who  was  asked  to  be, 
for  the  time  present,  a  sort  of  "  king's  jester,"  happened  to 
be  as  friand  as  the  the  illustrious  guest  himself ;  and  fixed 
his  eyes  on  the  petit  plat  de  petits  pois,  with  a  look  not  to  be 
mistaken.  My  lady,  who  understood  the  language  of  the 
eyes,  [comme  de  raison,)  endeavoured  to  draw  off  Johnson's, 
by  presenting  to  his  special  notice  a  delicious  dish  of  aspara- 
gus. But  the  indomptable  Johnson,  drawing  the  entrtmtt 
par  excellence  of  the  second  course,  to  the  edge  of  his  plate, 
helped  himself  to  nearly  the  whole  ;  simply  observing,  "  No 
thank  you  my  lady,  never  titches  the  grass,  once  the  pais 
comes  in." 

LORD  DAMER. 

Bravo  !  Do  you  wonder  I  should  return  such  a  man  for 
an  independent  borough,  who  maintains  Ws  own  sturdy  in- 
dependence, on  so  trying  and  awful  an  occasion  ? 

[They  continue  to  talk  and  laugh.] 

MISS  DAMER,  (snapping  her  needle,  and  breaking  her  lambswool.) 

What  a  nuisance  a  billiard-room  is,  in  a  country  house ; 
at  least,  in  a  villa  !  It  breaks  up  the  party  so — especially 
when  it  is  as  small  as  ours  this  recess. 

18 


58  THE    EASTER   RECESS. 

COL.  ST.  LEGER,  (who  has  been  fluttering  about  Miss  Fanny,  now 
draws  a  chair  and  insinuates  himself  between  the  sisters.) 

Why,  one  would  think,  the  work-table  "  had  metal  more 
attractive,"  for  the  young  men  :  it  always  has  for  me.  I  am 
an  absolute  adept  in  threading  needles,  and  A\'inding  bobbins. 

MISS  FANNY,  (carelessly.) 
Did  the  young  men  of  the  Guards,  in  your  days,  love 
billiards,  as  much  as  they  do  now  ? 

COL.  ST.  LEGER,  (evidently  hurt,  but  laughing.) 
In  my  days,  "  Miss  Fanny  Damer  !"  Why,  I  am  in  the 
Guards  nou\  a'n't  I  ?  But  if  you  mean,  when  I  was  a  little 
ensign  of  the  Coldstream,  and  borrowed  my  sister's  white 
gloves  to  go  to  a  dowager's  ball,  I  think  young  men  were 
then  more  occupied  with  belles,  than  billiards.  Generally 
speaking,  men  of  all  ages  were  more  susceptible,  more  slaves 
to  such  lovely  tyrants  as  yourselves,  than  they  are  in  these 
march-of-intellect  times ;  w'hen  "  the  little  unknown"  has 
his  arrows  as  much  upon  his  hands,  as  a  manufacturer  of 
Manchester  has  his  corduroys  in  a  glut  of  the  market,  and 
love  is  as  much  out  of  fashion  as  the  drama. 

MISS  FANNY. 
Dear,  how  tiresome  I 

MISS  WILKINSON. 
Very  tiresome. 

MISS  DAMER. 
Well,  do  you  know,  that  mamma,  and  all  the  women  of 
her  standing,  say  just  the  same  ?    What  is  the  reason  ?    Are 
the  women  not  so  pretty  1  or  what  ? 

COL.  ST.-^I^EGER,  (with  gravity,  sipping  his  chasse.) 
The  women  are  always  divine; — but  there  are  many 
causes.  The  most  obvious  are  quadrilles  and  standing  sup- 
pers. To  "thread  the  mazes  of  the  gay  quadrille,"  is  no 
joke.  It  requires  head — undivided  attention,  at  least.  A 
country  dance  was  so  simple,  and  its  short  figure  so  reiter- 
ated, that  one  danced,  as  Falstaff  ran  away,  upon  instinct. 
Attention  w'as  then  concentrated  upon  the  lovely  partner  of 
the  set,  (which  frequently  consisted  of  forty,  or  fifty  couples, 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  59 

and  lasted  for  an  hour  or  two,)  during  which  time,  one 
never  lost  sight  for  a  moment  of  the  lady  of  one's  lot  or 
choice. 

MISS  FANNY. 
That  must  have  been  very  pleasant.     Lord  William  Fitz- 
forward  says,  he  hates  changing  partners:  it's  so  tiresome. 

MISS  WILKINSON. 
So  very  tiresome ! 

COL.  ST.  LEGER. 

Then  came  the  supper  ;  when,  seated  tete  a  tete,  with  "the 
fair,  the  inexpressive  she,"  one  had  time  and  opportunity  to 
begin  a  flirtation,  fall  in  love,  pop  the  question,  or  make  up 
one's  mind  to  jilt  or  marry,  as  circumstances  and  champagne 
directed:  for  men  are  desperate  upon  champagne,  who  are 
very  cool  on  claret. 

MISS  DAMER,  (laughing.) 
You  cruel  creature  !     How  can  you  talk  so  ? 

COL.  ST.  LEGER,  (with  a  languishing  smile.) 

I,  at  least,  was  any  thing  but  cruel : — to  my  cost,  I  was, 
and  am,  *'  more  sinned  against  than  sinning ;" — whatever 
the  world  may  say. 

MISS  FANNY,  (with  naivete,  and  raising  her  eyes  from  her  dog's  tail 
to  the  Colonel.) 

Oh  !  I  read  all  about  you,  and  Lady  Mary  Oldfield,  in  the 
Court  Journal.  They  called  it  "  an  old  aflair."  Though  I 
a'n't  out  yet,  like  Augusta,  I  do  pick  up  a  little  news  here 
and  there  ;  don't  I,  Emma  ? 

MISS  WILKINSON. 
Oh  !  you  do  indeed  !  and  so  do  I. 

MRS.  PRIMMER.  (M'ho  all  this  time  is  netting  at  the  rate  of  ten 
knots  an  hour,  but  still  looking  "  en  sournois,"  at  Lady  Alice  and 
Mr.  Sullivan.) 

Fanny  !  my  dear  Fanny  !  How  can  you  talk  such  non- 
sense to  the  Colonel  ? — She  is  such  a  child  of  nature  ! 


60  THE   EASTER   RECESS. 

COL.  ST.  LEGER,  (trying  not  to  hide  his  affected  confusion,  in  a 
book  of  patterns.) 

Yes  ;  so  I  perceive  !  but,  fairest  of  Fannys,  if  you  get 
scandalous,  /  must  bolt. — I  cannot  stand  such  attacks,  and 
such  eyes,  all  at  once  ;  \7}iutters  to  her  as  he  passes  ;]  you 
are  a  most  dangerous  little  creature — you  are,  upon  my 
honour. 

MISS  FANNY,  (whispers  Miss  Wilkinson.) 
Do  you  know,  I  think  he  is  a  very  nice  person. 

MISS  WILKINSON. 

So  very  nice  !  I  do  think. 

[Colonel  St.  Leger  lounges  to  the  tea-table;  and  begins  a  "keen  en- 
counter of  the  eyes,"  with  the  soubrettes,  who  draw  up  their 
tight  white  gloves,  and  drop  large  lumps  of  sugar  into  the  cups, 
with  their  fingers.  The  Colonel  sips  his  tea,  and  flirts  in  French, 
learned  at  Brussels,  in  the  Waterloo  days.  Lord  Mount-Twad- 
dledum  has  drawn  a  prie-dieu  chair,  beside  Lady  Elizabeth,  who 
still  munches  her  brioche,  and  sips  her  hyson.  He  places  himself, 
bolt-upright,  in  the  same  attitude  in  wliich  he  made  the  tour  of 
Europe  ;  and  resumes  a  conversation  he  had  begun  at  the  dessert, 
which  originated  in  a  new  service  of  Dresden  china,  with  the  arms 
and  crests  of  the  Darners  united  with  those  of  the  Montforts.] 

LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM. 
To  go  back  to  where  we  left  off,  Lady  Elizabeth  ;  if  there 
is  a  subject  on  which  I  know  something,  it  is  heraldry. 
Now,  I  have  no  objection  to  Sir  Robert, — I  should  say  Lord 
Damer, — or  any  other  private  person,  (for  with  me,  a  nouvelle 
noblesse  goes  for  nothing,)  having  his  arms,  or  what  he  as- 
sumes as  his  arms,  on  his  porcelain.  But  I  object  to  private 
gentlemen,  whether  on  plate,  china,  or  elsewhere,  blazoning 
their  coats  by  precious  stones.  You  of  course,  know  that 
we  give  it  for  a  rule,  that  the  coats  of  sovereigns  should  be 
blazoned  by  the  planets,  (Sol,  Luna,  or  Saturn,) — those  of 
nobles  by  precious  stones,  (as  topaz,  pearls,  sardonyx,)  suited 
to  the  or  and  argent,  sable,  or  sanguine ; — but  for  private 
men,  or  esquires.  .  . 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (rather  piqued,  and  less  drawling  than  usual.) 

But  you  are  so  very  odd.  Lord  T.,  persisting  to  call  Lord 
Damer  a  private  gentleman  ! 

LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM. 
Pardon  me,  my  dear  friend,   if  I  call  him  so  ;  it  is  my 


THE  EASTER  RECESS.  61= 

courtesy  that  grants  so  high  a  grade  as  geniiUhomme  to  Lord 
Darner.  In  fact,  he  is  not  heraldically  a  gentleman  ;  be- 
cause his  family  cannot  prove  that  it  is. without  the  alloy  of 
trade,  profession,  or  some  other  personal  exertion  for  main- 
tenance, for  four  hundred  years.  His  great-grandfather  was 
a  Manchester  spinning  jenny.  His  grandfather  and  father 
were  bankers,  the  last  a  baronet ;  all,  men  living  by  trade  ; 
worthy  men,  no  doubt,  and  very  rich  ;  but  as  tradesmen,  not 
entitled  to  paternal  arms.  However,  their  assuming  the  real 
Darner  arms  (when  or  why  nobody  knows)  is  not  without 
precedent ;  and  Lord  Darner  having  acquired  a  right  to  arms 
of  alliance  (that  is,  yours)  on  a  'scutcheon  of  pretence,  gives 
him  an  excuse  for  blazoning  the  ruby  :  but  in  strict  heraldic 
science,  it  is  wrong.  The  heralds  of  Vienna  would  not 
allow  it. 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (taking  a  pinch  of  snuff  from  Lord  Darner's  box, 
which  he  presents.) 

Well,  I  must  say  that  the  idea  of  Lord  Darner,  a  peer,  the 
son  of  a  baronet,  with  a  rent-roll  of  forty  thousand  a  year, 
and  married  to  a  Duke's  daughter, — not  being  a  gentleman, 
is  rather  pleasant. 

LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM. 

But,  my  dear  Lady  Elizabeth,  your  father,  though  a  duke, 
was  not  a  gentleman.  I  calculate,  that  out  of  every  sixty 
peers,  there  are  not  six  gentlemen. 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (laughing  so  as  to  shake  her  sides.) 

Well,  now;  that  is  really  too  droll!  you  are  quizzing, 
Lord  M. 


LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM. 

Never  was  more  serious  in  all  my  life.  1  repeat,  that  to 
be  a  duke,  it  is  not  necessary  to  be  a  gentleman.  I  could 
quote  you  a  dozen,  not  one  of  whom  are  gentlemen.  Nay, 
some  of  the  royaV families  haven't  a  gentleman  among  them. 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (reconciled.) 

Oh,  well,  perhaps  so — but  it's  very  odd  !  What  very  good 
snuff!    It  a'n't  Lord  Petersham's  new  light  ? 

18* 


62  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM. 

No,  madam ;  I  have  never  changed  my  snuff,  nor  my 
principles,  nor  ever  shall.  This  is  the  snuff  taken  by  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh,  who  first  brought  tobacco  into  England. 
You  know  our  motto,  "  nee  mutatus^  nee  muiabilis  ;"  and  at 
the  end  of  six  hundred  years,  I,  Geoffroi,  Lord  Mount-twad- 
dledum,  am  an  impersonation  of  the  hereditary  temperament 
of  my  race  ;  a  monument  of  what  the  English  nobility  was, 
and  might  still  have  been,  if  it  had  taken  due  care  to  avoid 
mesalliance,  and  to  resist  innovation  upon  all  points  and  par- 
ticulars. 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 
Indeed  !  well,  certainly  you  do  wear  very  well ;  but  I  re- 
member, when   you  first  came  from   your  grand  tour^   and 
were  such  a  favourite  with  Glueen  Charlotte, — you  had  such 
a  fine  colour,  people  said  you  rouged. 

LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM,  (pre-occupied  and  not  listening.) 
I  am  counting  the  ^^  families  chapif rales'''  of  England. 
It  is  astonishing  how  foAV  they  are  :  I  don't  think  there  are 
six  incontestable.  Your  mother's  family  can  count  their  six- 
teen quarterings,  as  I  can  ;  but  I  doubt  whether  you  would 
be  admitted  into  any  of  the  German  chapters.  I  don't  think 
they  would  really  make  you  a  Chanoinesse,  at  Vienna. 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 

Well,  I'm  sure,  I  don't  want  to  be  a  Chanoinesse,  the  least 
in  the  world. 

LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM. 
Oh  !  in  Vienna,  mind,  I  say  :  but  elsewhere. . . 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (interrupting  him.) 
You  have  interest  at  Vienna,  by-the-bye,  haven't  you  ? 
That  is  very  nice.  You  shall  do  something  for  me,  there, 
for  one  of  those  poor  Fitzforwards,  my  nephews.  I  want  to 
get  William  out,  as  an  attache  to  Vienna — paid,  you  know  : 
there  are  so  many  of  them.  Don't  you  think  you  could  ? 
You  know,  you  provided  for  all  the  Boscovilles  ;  two  of  them 
you  made  pages  to  the  late  king.  They  held  two  commis- 
sions each.     And  then  the  two  you  quartered  on  the  Irish 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  63 

Lord  Lieutenant,  and  the  boy  that  went  out  to  the  Brazils. 
You  might,  I  think,  place  one  or  two  of  those  poor  Filzfor- 
wards — they  are  so  very  poor. 

LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM,  (taking  an   unusual   quantity  of 

Snuff) 

He  !  he  !  he  !  My  lady,  you  are  dreaming.  I  place  any- 
body now  !  you  don't  mean  that  ?  [With  graviti/  and  im- 
portance.^ I  did  indeed  serve  some  of  my  friends,  in  the 
two  late  reigns  ;  I  had  some  influence  then  :  well,  madam, 
I  have  not  now  interest  to  obtain  a  pension  on  the  Irish  con- 
cordatum  list.  But  those  I  did  place,  when  I  was  in  power, 
how  did  they  repay  me  ?  Out  of  eighteen  younger  brothers, 
that  I  got  bread  for,  twelve  have  ratted  to  the  present  minis- 
ters ;  and  the  rest  are  neither  fish  nor  flesh  ;  but  vote  with 
their  elder  brothers,  through  thick  and  thin. 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 
Oh  !  but  those  poor  boys,  my  nephews,  will  go  any  way 
you  like.  My  eldest  nephew,  you  know,  Dulwhosehe, 
married  my  niece  Georgiana  Montford,  and  not  Alice,  as  loe 
all  thought  ;  who  really  refused  Cecil  Howard,  poor  thing"! 
before  he  came  in  for  that  fine  property  ;  and  he  says  he  can't 
do  anything  for  them,  (that's  the  Duke,)  though  he  is  so  very 
rich,  because  he  has  paid  them  their  two  thousand  pounds 
each,  in  commissions  and  things  ;  and  they  have  no  clean 
gloves.  The  old  duchess,  their  grandmother,  allowed  them 
fifty  pounds  a  piece  for  clean  gloves,  while  she  lived.  But 
she  left  every  thing  to  the  Duke  Dullwhosehe,  whom  she  so 
hated.  She  always  said  the  eldest  son  should  support  the 
dignity  of  the  family  ;  and  so  she  left  every  thing  to  him. 

LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM. 

She  was  quite  right.  Our  primogeniture  is  all  that  is  now- 
left  us.  But  the  present  Duke  is  a  trimmer.  Let  him  get 
places  for  his  cadets  from  his  new  friends,  the  Whigs.  It  is 
pitiable  in  him  ;  for  the  Dullwhosohes  are  really  a  familh 
chapitrale — which  means  that  they  can  prove  the  nobility  of 
their  grand-father's  grandfather,  their  grandfather's  maternal 
grand-father  ;  the  nobility  of  their  mother's  grandmother, 
grandfather,  and 

LORD  DAMER,  (breaking  ofTfrom  his  conversation  with  Mrs.  O'Neal, 
and  addressing  them,  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  annoyance.) 

What — what — what !     Oh  ! — how  ! — still  at  your  grand- 


64  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

fathers  and  grandmothers  ?  Eh  !  Lord  Mount  Twaddledum  1 
at  your  old  pedigree  again  !  Why,  who  can  tell  whose  son 
any  body  is  ?  It  all  depends  upon  the  women,  you  know. 
What  has  become  of  the  genealogical  tree  of  Clanlofty's  ? 
Ha  !  ha!  ha  !  Ask  Signior  Benvenuti,  the  Italian  singing- 
master  :  that  affair  went  on  for  ten  years,  and  the  old  lord 
never  found  it  out!  And  there  is  the  present  lord,  with  Ben- 
venuti's  black  Italian  eyes  staring  every  one  in  the  face,  and 
his  little  squint  towards  the  nose  ;  and  singing  like  a  primo 
ienore.  Then  there's  Lord  Brentford's  hopeful  youth,  as 
like  that  scamp.  Captain  Lighthead,  as 

LORD  MOUIST-TWADDLEDUM,  (much  shocked,  and  rising.) 
For   the  present,  Lord   Damer,  we  will   drop  the  subject. 

Les  gens,  les  gens!     Respectez  Vinnocence  !  [Looking  at  the 

servants,  and  the  young  ladies.^ 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (drawing  up  to  her  uttermost,  and  tossing  back 
her  turban,  which  had  gradually  fallen  to  the  tip  of  her  nose.) 

Aye — yes.  He  is  so  very  shocking ;  a'n't  he  ?  Before 
those  girls  too  !  as  I  often  say,  poor  dears  !  Lord  Damer, 
you  shouldn't  really  be  so  very  shocking.  This  is  beyond — 
did  you  ever ! 

LORD  DAMER. 
Shocking !  Come,  I  like  that.  As  if  those  girls  and 
boys  there,  didn't  know  all  about  such  things,  and  read  them 
every  Sunday  in  the  papers,  before  they  go  to  church.  Why 
do  you  take  the  papers,  and  t'other  periodicals,  all  about 
fashionable  life,  and  delicate  affairs,  and  strange  rumours, 
and  elopements,  and  crim.  cons.,  and  double  entendres,  and 
funny  puns  ?  Why,  Fanny  there,  read  me  two  colums  of 
Lady  Laura  Golightly,  and  Henry  Wishit,  last  Sunday 
morning,  while  we  w^ere  waiting  for  you  to  go  to  St.  James's 
chapel.  Egad  !  I  didn't  know^  well  what  to  do,  or  which 
w^ay  to  look.  I  was  afraid  to  check  her  ;  for,  after  all,  she 
might  not  understand  what  she  read,  poor  love !  But  she 
laughed  comme  un  bossu,  as  Madame  de  CrevecoEur  says. 
By-the-bye,  Lord  Mount-Twaddledum,  what  is  become  of 
your  pretty  little  French  friend  ?  I  don't  see  her  about 
town  now.     Is  she  off  at  last  ? 

LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM. 
Poor  lady  !     She   has  gone  back  to   France.     She  only 
eame  to  town  on  some  business  of  the  illustrious  and  royal 


THE   EASTER  RECESS. 


65 


victims,  whom  she  serves  with  a  loyal  fidelity, — a  devoted- 
ness  that  is  quite  fine,  and  indeed  unexampled  in  these  gir- 
ouette  and  jacobinal  times. 

LORD  DAMER. 
Well,  my  opinion  of  your  pretty  coquettish  Countess  is,  that 
she  is  a  devilish  clever  little  iiitrigaunte,  and  ambassadrice  de 
poche  ;  and  that  she  would  never  have  gone  back  to  France, 
if  she  could  have  run  down  my  son,  who  had  a  narrovv  es- 
cape of  her,  though  she  is  old  enough  to  be  his  mother  ;  or 
even,  if  your  lordship  had  laid  your  coronet,  as  the  world 
says  you  did  your  heart,  at  her  feet.  She  would  have  plant- 
ed "  the  royal  victims"  at  old  Holyrood,  depend  upon  it ; 
and  would  have  condescended  to  enlighten  the  Tory  coteries 
of  St.  James's  with  the  politics  and  les  mcBurs  of  the  pavilion 
Marsaji.  If  I  had  not  hurried  off  Damer  on  his  diplomatic 
mission  to  Russia,  she  would  have/<2i^  ses  paques  at  the  Cliff 
this  spring. 

LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM,  (sharply.) 
The  world  assigns  another  motive  for  your  lordship's  ac- 
ceptance of  a  place  under  the  present  ministry,  than  that  of 
saving  Mr.  Damer  from  the  fascinations  of  the  Countess  de 
CrevecoEur. 

LORD  DAMER. 

Yes  ;  I  know — your  world,  the  conservatives.  Something 
about  another  step  in  the  peerage  !  All  I  can  say  is,  that 
I  know  nothing  about  it.  But  you  know,  I  never  was  an 
ultra  in  politics.  At  present,  my  principle  is  not  to  scram- 
ble for  more ;  but  to  try  to  keep  together  what  I  have  got, — 
by  Jove,  no  easy  matter  !  These  are  times,  in  which  our 
grandfather's  grandfathers  can  do  nothing  for  us  ;  and  I 
fear  that  the  unalienable  estates  lodged  in  the  brains  and  sin- 
ews of  les  families  industrielles,  are  more  available  in  the 
present  day,  than  all  the  claims  of  the  families  chapitrales, 
that  ever  existed  -since  the  line  of  Noah, — even  when  advo- 
cated by  such  truly  honest  and  honourable  gentlemen  as 
your  lordship.  We  must  go  with  our  age,  my  dear  old 
friend  ;  or  our  age  will  leave  us  in  the  lurch. 

LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM,  (rising  in  dignified  contempt.) 

When  your  ladyship  is  ready  for  your  whist  party,  I  am 
at  your  service. 


66 


THE   EASTER   RECESS. 


MR.  WILKINSON,  (from  behind  Lady  Elizabeth's  chair.) 
And  T,  Lady  Elizabeth,  will  be  most  happy  to  have  that 
honour. 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (looking  back  surprised.) 

O,  dear  !  are  you  there,  Mr.  Wilkinson  ?  Well,  you  are 
so  silent !     Don't  people  talk  in  India  ? 

MR.  WILKINSON,  (with  the  air  of  Tippoo  Saib.) 
Sometimes — to  their  equals. 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 
Oh,  indeed  !   I  really  believe  I  never  thanked  you  for  this 
very  pretty  Benares  turban.      'Tis  so  nice  ! 

MR.  AVILKINSON,  (bowing  his  head  like  a  Chinese  mandarin.) 

I  have  a  piece  of  Keemc'ab  waiting  your  ladyship's  accept- 
ance. 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 
You  are  so  kind  !     I  should  so  like  to  go  to  India.     One 
gets  such  nice  things  there  :   Cashmeres,  and  atar,  and  gold 
chains  ;  and  all  for  nothing  at  all. 

MR.  WILKINSON. 

Not  for  nothing.  Lady  Elizabeth. 

LADY   ELIZABETH. 
No  !     Well,  I  thought  you  nabobs  somehow  did.     Some- 
body gave  me  such  a  pretty  chain  for  my  etremie  last  year  ! 
I  forget  how  it  is  called. 

MR.  WILKINSON,  (much  mortified.) 

A  Trichinopoli  chain  !  It  was  /  had  the  honour  of  pre- 
senting it  to  your  ladyship. 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (coolly.) 

Well,  only  think  ;  so  it  was  !  It  was  so  very  kind  !  Do 
you  think  you  could  do  any  thing  for  my  nephew  ? — my 
nephew.  Lord  William  Fitzforward.  Get  him  out  to  India 
as  an  attache,  i^aye  s'ente/id,)  or  a  cadet,  or  something  ? 


THE     EASTER     RECESS.  67 

MR.  WILKINSON,  (with  deference.) 
The  Duke  of  Dullwhosehe's  brother  !    If  his  Grace  would 
let  me  know  his  wishes  on  the  subject,  I  should  at  least  try 
to  meet  them. 

LADY  ELIZABETH. 
Oh  !  the  Duke  dines  here  to-morrow,  and  you  shall  talk 
to  him.    I  must  present  you.    You  must  get  on  the  Duchess's 
list,  you  know,  for  her  Monday  soirees  !  "~ 

MR.  WILKINSON,  (highly  gratified.) 
Your  ladyship   does   me  great  honour.      I  shall  be  too 
happy. 

[Wilson  advances  the  card  table,  and  places  chairs.] 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (brightening  up  at  the  sight  of  the  cards  and 
counters.) 

We  still  want  one.     Where  are  all  the  young  men  ? 

LORD  DAMER. 
All  in  the  billiard-room,  as  usual.     But  here  is  my  friend 
Johnson.     He  is  reckoned  one  of  the  best  whist  players  of 
the  Kildare  Street  Club  in  Dublin. 

MR.  JOHNSON,  (smihng.) 
Give  you  my  honour,  my  lord,  I  am  no  great  things  at  the 
game,  no  more  than  the  mare  that  ran  for  the  whiskey — only 
just  luck. 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (looking  at  him  through  her  half  closed  eyes,  as 
if  she  saw  him  for  the  first  time.) 

So  ! we  don't  play  higher  than  sovereigns,  Mr 

MR.  JOHNSON,  (cutting  in.) 
Whatever   your    ladyship  plazes,  from  a  cronahan  to    a 
guinea. 

[^ady  Elizabeth,  to  whose  lot  he  falls,  stares  at  him.] 

LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM,  (apart.) 
A  joint  of  Damer's  Irish  tail.     Very  vulgar. 

LORD  DAMER. 
Now,  Johnson — they  don't  talk  here  at  cards,  so   don't 
draw  them  off  with  one  of  your  droll  stories,  mind ! 


68  THE     EASTER     RECESS. 

MR.  JOHNSON,  (dealing  with  an  air  peculiar  to  himself.) 
Oh  !  never  fear,  my  lord  :  it's  a  rule  with  me  at  the  card- 
table  never  to  let  fall  a  word,  till  the  Puldoodies  come  in  ;  and 
then  of  course  I  rest  on  my  arms  ! 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (intent  on  sorting  her  cards.) 
Are  Puldoodies  Indian  ?  or  what  ? 

MR.  JOHNSON. 
No,  my  lady  ;  they  are  Irish.  Some  prefer  the  Malahides ; 
but  of  a  small  oyster,  there  is  nothing  like  the  Puldoodies! 
— Hearts  trumps  !  that  streel  of  a  queen  never  brought  me 
luck  yet ;  whenever  she  turns  up,  I'm  sure  to  be  out  for  the 
rob,  like  the  knave  of  clubs  at  "five  and  forty." 

LORD  DAMER,  (laughing.) 
Is  that  an  Irish  game,  Johnson, — five  and  forty  ? 

MR.  JOHNSON,  (playing  with  vehemence.) 
It  is,  my  lord — or  was,  in  the  good  ould  times  !     I  believe 
your  ladyship  has  reneagued  ! 

LORD  DAMER,  (laughing.) 
Translate  that,   Johnson,  for  the  benefit  of  the   country 
gentlemen. 

MR.  JOHNSON. 

Is  it  reneague,  my  lord?     Sure  isn't  it  to  refuse  following 
the  lade ! 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (approaching  the  table.) 
Like  many  words,  that  in  modern  parlance  sound  vulgar, 
or  are  deemed  obscure,  Mr.  Johnson's  reneague  is  from  the 
old  French.  I  think  St.  Evermont  uses  it  in  one  of  his  card 
playing  dialogues  at  the  Duchess  de  Mazarines  with  '*  Mi 
Ladi  Kildare,^^  and  other  gambling  beauties  of  the  court  of 
Charles  the  Second  ! 

MR.  JOHNSON,  (taking  up  the  trick.) 
Thank  you,  ma'am  ;  that's  my  maning  intirely — Ireland 
against  the  field  !     I'll  trouble  your  ladyship  not  to  thrump 
my  best  card  again  ! 

[Lord  Mount-Twaddledum  and  Lady  Elizabeth  stare,  and  exhibit 
signs  of  increasing  annoyance  and  ill-humour,  and  finally  lay  down 
their  cards,  as  Mrs.  O'Neal  draws  out  Johnson  to  talk  ] 


THE  EASTER  RECESS.  69 

LORD  MOUNT-TWADDLEDUM. 

It's  impossible  to  play. 

LORD  DAMER. 
Come,   Mrs.    O'Neal,  you  and  I  are  evidently   de   trop. 
We  must  pair  oft' Oh  !  Thompson  !  do  you  play 

ecart^  ? 

MR.  THOMPSON. 
I  do,  my  lord. 

LORD  DAMER,  (taking  his  arm.) 
Come,  then  !  Wilson,  set  a  table. 

[Mrs.  O'Neal  returns  to  her  book  and  chair.] 


i^ 


70  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 


SCENE    II. 


[The  Billiard  Room.  Count  Amede'e  de  Val  Blanc,  Lords  Johx, 
William,  and  Francis  Fitzforward,  Mr.  Mandeville  Liston. 
Count  Aniadee  and  Lord  Leicester  are  playing  ;  Lord  John  and 
Mr.  Liston  betting.] 

MR.  LISTON. 
Five  to  four  the  striker  marks  ! 

LORD  JOHN. 
Done !     Pounds  ? 

MR.  LISTON. 
Fives,  if  you  will. 

LORD  JOHN. 
Done  ! 

LORD  LEICESTER. 
That  is  a  bubble  het,  Johnny  !  the  thing  is  impossible  ! 

COUNT  AMADE'E. 
Mais,  pourtant,  je  tacherai. — Milord,  vous  avez  perdu. 

LORD  JOHN. 
Eh  bein  !  C'est  que  vous     etes  trop  forte,  Comte.     On  ne 
peut  rien  contre  vous.     Marker,  count  the  game. 

LORD  WILLIAM. 
Seventeen  to  sixteen. 


MR.  LISTON. 
Will  you  double  your  bets  ? 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  71 

LORD  JOHN. 
Thank  you  !  no ;  but  I'll  take  five  fives  to  two,  the  Count 
does'nt  mark  twenty-one  this  game. 

MR.  LISTON. 

Done  ! 

[They  play  several  cpupa.] 

LORD  JOHN,  (impatiently.) 
C'est  a   vous  a  jouer,  Comte.     Car  mon  fr^re  n'a  pas 
carambole. 

LORD  LEICESTER. 
Je  ne  le  cherchais  pas.     Je  n'ai  voulu  que  coller  mon  jeu. 

COUNT  AMADE'E. 
*Ma  foi  vous  n'avez  pas  mal  reussi. 

LORD  WILLIAM,  (marking.) 
Eighteen — fifteen . 

LORD  JOHN. 
Bravo,  Comte  !    grand   jeu,    parblue  !     Vous    donnez  la 
votre  coup,  sans  avoir  a  peine  vise  ;  et  je  suis  enfouce.     Et 
voila  qu'  a  present  vous  bloquez  la  bille  a  votre  adversaire. 

[Lord  Leicester  plays,  wins  an  hazard,  and  keeps  the  ball  till  he 
scores  twenty-one.] 

LORD  LEICESTER. 
A  present  le  jeu  est  a  vous  ;  vous  ne  le  manquerez  pas. 

MR.  LISTON. 
I'll  bet  two  sovereigns  to  one  that  I  win  my  two  fives  this 
coup. 

LORD  JOHN. 
I'll  indulge  you — that  is,  the  Count  does  not  score  twenty- 
one  this  coup. 

MR.  LISTON. 
Done  I 


72  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

COUNT  AMADE'E. 
C'est  immanquable  ! 

MR.  LISTON. 
Oui,  avec    votre  jeu   d'aujourd'hui.     Vous  jouez  comme 
un  ange. 

[The  Count  plays,  and  missing  his  queu,  pockets  his  own  ball,  and 
loses  the  game.) 

COUNT  AMADE'E,  (dashing  down  his  queu  with  great  violence,  and 
rumpling  his  hair  with  both  his  hands,  in  irrepressible  rage.) 

Oui  !    Je  joue  comme  un  demon  ;    et  je  perds  toujours 
eomme  une  bete.     Sac  re,  est  il  possible  ! 

LORD  LEICESTER,  (coolly  replacing  his  queu.) 
Q,ue  I'on  perd  son  jeu  ;  mais  que  Ton  ne  derange  pas  sa 
coiffure. 

COUNT  AMADE'E  (with  a  sudden  burst  of  good  humour.) 
C'est  vrai !     [Hums  an  air,  "  On  rcvient  toujourSy^^]  <SfC, 

MR.  LISTON,  (taking  out  his  pocket-book.) 
I  lose  seventy  pounds  and  win  twenty,  (I  believe,)  includ- 
ing the  off  bets.     There  are  fifty  pounds — I  happen  to  have 
the  money  about  me. 

LORD  JOHN. 

As  you  please,  if  it  saves  you  trouble. 

[Count  Amandee  throws  himself  on  an  ottoman  beside  Mr.  Listen. 
The  two  brothers  talk,  apart,  in  an  under  tone.  The  two  younger 
begin  knocking  about  the  balls.] 

LORD  JOHN,  (sharply.) 
Francis,  be  quiet,  will  you  ?  You  make  such  an  infernal 
noise  with  those  balls. 

LORD  FRANCIS. 
Noise  !  I  like  that.     I'll  play  against  you,  John,  and  give 
you  odds. 

[Lord  William  flings  down  his  queu,  and  goes  to  the  ladies.] 

LORD  JOHN. 
Nonsense,  child ;  you  play  ! — go  and  play  with  your  cou- 


THE    EASTER    RECESS. 


73 


sins  in  the  next  room — or  go  to  your  holiday  task.  The 
holidays  will  soon  be  over,  old  boy.  School  opens  next 
Monday,  mind  ! 

LORD  FRANCIS,  (with  great  ill-temper.) 

I'll  lay  you  what  you  like,  I  don't  go  back  to  Eton  any 
more. 

LORD  JOHN,  (vehemently,) 
Done! 

LORD  FRANCIS. 

Done! 

LORD  JOHN,  (getting  earnest.) 
Who  has  a  betting-book  ? 

LORD  LEICESTER. 

I  have.  I  never  go  without  one.  'Tis  "  mes  heures,'^  as 
Madame  de  Crevecceur  says  of  Chateaubriand's  ^'Christian- 
isme.''     What's  the  bet  ?     [Takes  out  his  book.] 

LORD  JOHN. 

I  bet  my  grey  colt,  against  Francis's  gold  repeater,  chain, 
seals,  and  diamond  ring,  left  him  by  his  grandmother. 

LORD  FRANCIS,  (sulkily.) 
No,  I  won't  lay  that. 

LORD  JOHN. 

What !  a  touch  of  sentiment  for  the  old  lady,  whose  lap- 
dog  you  choked  ?     Come,  you  can't  be  off,  boy. 

LORD  FRANCIS. 

I  won't  lay  that,  I  tell  you.  Besides,  your  coh  is  not 
sound.     It's  not  worth  ten  pounds. 

LORD  JOHN. 

Not  sound  !  Come,  that  is  too  good.  The  fact  is,  you 
haven't  your  watch — you've — 

19* 


74  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

LORD  FRANCIS,  (interrupting  him  petulantly.) 

I'll  lay  you  five  guineas  I  have  ! 

LORD  JOHN. 
Done !  Produce  ! 

[Lord  Francis  takes  out  a  large  old  silver  watch,  worth  a  pound.] 

LORD  JOHN,  (angrily.) 
That's  not  the  watch,  sir  ! 

LORD  FRANCIS. 
You  didn't  say  ichat  watch.     This  is  mine  ! 

LORD  JOHN,  (struggling  with  his  temper.) 
That's  not  a  fair  bet,  Frank.      It's  no  go,  my  boy. 

LORD  FRANCIS. 
Yes,  but  it  is  a  go  ;  and   you  shall  pay  me,  too,  John ; 
sha'n't  he,  Leicester  ? 

LORD  LEICESTER. 
To  be  sure  he  must,   little  Pickle.     You  have  done  the 
knowing  one,  and  it's  all  fair.     [A  general  laugh.] 

COUNT  AMADE'E,  (replacing  in  his  shirt  a  button  of  enamelled  gold, 
which  Mr.  Listen  had  been  examining  with  attention.) 

II  n'y  a  pas  de  regie,  a  la  rigeur.  On  agraffe  les  che- 
mises comme  on  veut.  Mais  point  de  large  plies,  vous  enten- 
dez? 

MR.  LISTON. 
Oui,  monsieur. 

COUNT  AMADE'E. 
Vous  lisez  "  La  Revue  Fashionable,"  n'est  ce  pas  ? 

MR.  LISTON. 
Oui,  monsieur. 

COUNT  AMADE'E. 
Vous  avez  vu  comme  on  place  les  agraffes  ? 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  75 

MR.  LISTON. 


Oui, 


monsieur. 


COUNT  AMADE'E. 
Vous  seriez  grandement  en  erreur,  si  vous  croyez  que  les 
boutons  sont  places,  comme  les  gravures  de  la  revue  ;  en  pre- 
nant  les  deuz  bords  de  la  chemise  croises  I'un  par  I'autre. 

MR.  LISTON. 
Oui,  monsieur. 

COUNT  AMADE'E. 
Diable?  voila  un  "  oui"  en  grand  service  !  II  n'est  pas 
fort  celui-la.  Oh  9a,  Monsier  Liston,  we  shall  speak  En- 
glish, if  you  please  it  ;  dat  is  equal  to  me.  Je  rafolle  de  votre 
vie  de  chateau — your  life  in  a  castle — 'tis  very  charmin' — 
but  3^0 ur  societe  is — is  much — be  it  littel  weighty — tant  soit 
peu  hebete,  as  we  say  at  Paris  ;  but  that  is  equal.  What 
magnificence  !  You  live  in  prince  in  your  country-house. 
Miss  Damers,  dey  are  very  rich,  n'est  ce  pas  ? 

MR.  LTSTON,  (with  difficulty  repressing  a  laugh  at  the  Count's  En- 
glish.) 

Not  very,  I  believe.  But  they  have  great  connexions  by 
the  mother's  side.  She  is  called  the  aunt  of  three  dukes. 
They  are  excellent  matches. for  men  who  don't  want  money. 

COUNT  AMADE'E. 
Don't  want  money  !    Ah  !  la  cosa  rara — Miladi  Montfort, 
est  elle  riche  ?     She  is  what  you  call  heiress  ? 

MR.  LISTON. 
Oh  dear  !  not  at  all, — not  a  shilling.  But  with  such  high 
blood,  and  fashion,  and  all  that,  'tis  not  wanted.  Lady  Geor- 
gina,  you  know  married  the  Duke  of  Dullwhosehe  the  other 
day ;  and  a  young  one,  not  out,  is  reserved  for  the  rich 
young  Marquis  of  Chesterton. 

COUNT  AMADE'E. 
And  you  ave  not  one  heiress  of  de  parti  ?     Point  de   hon 
parti  ?  dites  done  ! 


76  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

MR.  LISTON. 
No,  except  you  count  that  little  Indian  girl,  the  nabob's 
daughter,  an  heiress.     She  will   have  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds,  'ts  said  ; — but  no  connexion  ! 

COUNT  AMADE'E. 
Hundred  tousand  pounds  ! — bagatelle  !     Ca  fait  plus  que 
deux  millions   de   francs.       C'est    une   revenue   de   prince, 
parbleu  ! 

MR.  LISTON. 

Yes  ! — but   she   isn't  the  least  well-looking ;    not  at  all 
distinguee. 

COUNT  AMADE'E. 
Q,u'est  ce  que  9a  signifie  ?     "  Elle  est  faite,"  comme  dit 
de  Grammont,  "  comme  toutes  les  heretieres."    Let  us  come  ! 
[Rises   and   takes  Mr.  Listoii's  arm.']      You  are  going  to 
present  me  to  her  ? — n'est  ce  pas  ? 

MR.  LISTON,  (smiling.) 
Oh  !  with  pleasure.     But   I  give  you  notice ;  she  is  not 
reckoned  bon-ton — doesn't  go  to  Almack's 

COUNT   AMADE'E. 
That  is  perfectly  equal  to   me.     Presentez  moi,  tout  de 
m^me. 

[They  return  to  the  gallery ;  followed  by  the  other  interlocutors.] 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  77 


SCENE  III. 


[The  gallery,  as  in  Scene  I.    The  Ladies,  at  the  work-table.    Lord 

MOUNT-TWADDLEDCM,   LaDT    ELIZABETH,    Mr.   WiLKINSON,    and 

Mr.  Johnson,  M.  P.,  at  Whist,  which  they  now  play  with  great 
earnestness,  gravity,  and  silence.  Colonel  St.  Leger  is  seated 
near  Miss  Damer,"in  a  flirting  attitude.  Mr.  Sullivan  is  behind 
Lady  Alice's  chair:  whom  he  addresses  in  a  low  and  emphatic 
mutter.  Cecil  Howard  and  Mrs.  O'Neal  are  seated  as  before,  and 
conversing.] 

MR.  SULLIVAN. 

I  will  not  now  press  your   ladyship   further,  for   I  see 

[glancing  at  Cecil  Howard  and  Mrs.  O'Neal']  we  are  not 

only  observed  by  "  the  observed  of  all  observers,"  but  by  the 

observer  of  all  observers,  my  talented  countrywoman,  there. 

LADY  ALICE,  (looking  spitefully  pleased.) 
Yes,  I  see  ;  we  are  down  for  a  page,  I  suppose.     Do  you 
know  her  ? 

MR.   SULLIVAN. 

0  dear  no  !  I  lived  exclusively  with  the  officials,  when  I 
was  -in  Ireland.  But  things  are  so  changed  now,  that  the 
society  of  Dublin  is  quite  another  thing.  How  did  she  get 
here,  Lady  Alice  ? 

LADY  ALICE. 
Don't  know  at  all — my  uncle  and  my  aunt  like  geniuses, 
— people  who  talk,  and,  what  Lord   Damer  calls,  keep  up 
the  ball. 

MR.  SULLIVAN,  (doubtingly.) 
Still,  I  believe,  that  is  any  thing  but  bon-ton.      Don't  you 
think  it  is  very  vulgar  to  talk  across  the  table  ? 

LADY  ALICE. 

1  really  never  thought  about  it.     One  does  not  naturally 


78  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

talk  at  dinner.  One  never  hears  any  one  talk  across  the  table, 
but  foreigners,  the  Irish,  and  les  beauz  discoiireurs,  who  are 
asked  on  purpose.  The  Irish  have  odd  manners,  rather 
vulgar.  Apropos  !  v\-hat  did  you  mean  by  engaging  me  "  for 
the  supper-set"  at  Lady  Di  Walker's  ?  I  have  been  think- 
ing of  it  ever  since. 

MR.  SULLIVAN,  (a  little  confused  ;  but  instantly  recovering  his  pre- 
sence of — impudence.) 

Have  you,  indeed  ! — [icith  increasing  ardour  of  manner. 1 
— O  !  Lady  Alice  !  if  I  might, — if  I  dared  believe  that  you 
really  had  been  thinking  of  ?7ie, — of  any  thing  that  I  could 
have  said  :  and  ever  since  too  ! — -Lady  Alice,  yoa  are  not 
aware  of  the  delicious  poison  you  are  administering,  or  you 
would  not  be  so  kindly  cruel.  This  may  be  sport  to  you  :  it 
is  death  to  me  ! — [A  pause.  Lady  Alice  throws  down  her 
eyes  and  reddens.^ 

Mr.  SULLIVAN,  (lowers  his  voice,  and  goes  on  with  increasing  energy.) 
You  know  your  own  sweet  song.     I  may  say,  with  Des- 
demona,  "  That  song  to-night  Avill  not  go  from  my  mind :" 

"  Je  ne  vous  dirai  pas  que  j'aime, 
Votre  rang  ma  le  defend. 

I  dare  not  finish  the  stanza:  but  recall  it  to  your  mind,  dearest 
Lady  Alice  ;  and  forgive  and  pity,  though  you  do  not  con- 
cede. 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (fidgetting.) 
My  dear  Lady  Alice,  will  you  change  places  with  me  ? 
You  are  so  near  the  fire,  it  has  quite  caught  your  face ! 

LADY  ALICE,  (with  hauteur.) 
•Had  I  felt  any  inconvenience  from  it,  I  should  have  made 
you  the  proposition  before. 

MRS.  PRIMMER,  (emphatically.) 
Oh,  my  dear,  you  may  not  suffer  any  inconvenience  now  ; 
but  at  a  future  moment,  you  may  feel  the  imprudence  of  ex- 
posing yourself  to  such  a  hot  fire. 

MR.  SULLIVAN,  (impatiently  and  pointedly.) 
Lady  Alice,  will  you  allow  me  to  give  you  a  chance  of 
revenging  yourself  at  the  chess-board,  after  your  complete 
defeat  this  morning  ? 


THE     EASTER    RECESS.  79 

LADY  ALICE,  (rising,  and  pushing  away  her  frame.) 
Oh  !   I  shall  be  delighted !     As  Mrs.   Primmer  observes, 
the  place  is  beginning  to  be  too  hot  to  hold  me. 

[She  laughs,  and  moves  away.  Mr.  Sullivan  places  the  chess-board 
in  a  distant  part  of  the  room,  to  which  they  both  retreat.  Mrs. 
Primmer  exhibits  great  annoyance  ;  she  places  herself  before  a  book 
ofprints,  half  way  between  ths  work-table  and  the  chess-board.] 

COL.  ST.  LEGER,  (to  Miss  Damer,  who  continues  to  ground  in  grey, 
and  flirt  with  equal  assiduity.) 

Then  j'ou  really  will  not  ride  to  the  Oaks,  to-morrow? 

MISS  DAMER. 
No,  I  really  will  not. 

COL.  ST.  LEGER. 
Do  you  really  mean  that,  Miss  Dainer  ? 

MISS  DAMER. 
I  really  do.  Colonel  St.  Leger. — How  you  look  ! 

COL.  ST.  LEGER. 
Then,  neither  will  I. 

MISS  DAMER. 
What,  after  you  made  the  party  yourself,  and  sent  to  town 
for  your  horses  ! — nonesense,  you  must. 

COL.  ST.  LEGER. 
Not  I,  upon  my  soul — I  hate  riding  parties  in  the  country  ; 
nothing  but  mud  and  turnpikes.     1  never  ride  beyond  the 
parks ;  and  had  no   earthly  object  in  proposing  the  party, 
but  the  hope  of  being  your  cavalier  for  the  morning. 

MISS  DAMER. 
What  would  Lady  Di  Walker  say,  if  she  heard  you  ? 

COL.  ST.  LEGER,  (conceitedly.) 
Give  a  dog  a  bad  name,  and  hang  him.     If  you  really 

knew  the  secret  of  that  affair one  cannot  be  savage, 

and 

[He  draws  his  chair  closer,  and  letting  his  voice  sink  into  an  inaudible 
whisper,  continues  his  narratircj  to  which  Miss  Damer,  bending 


80  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

over  her  frame,  "doth  seriously  her  ear  incline."  Enter  the  party 
from  the  billiard-room.  Count  Amade'e  is  presented  by  Mr.  L13- 
ToN  to  Miss  Wilkinson  ;  and  takes  a  chair  near  her,  with  the  airs 
empresses  of  a  man  in  love,  or  one  determined  to  be  so.  He  car- 
esses his  "favorites;"  and  begins  a  scientific  course  of  gallantry, 
to  which  Miss  AVilkinson,  (to  the  great  detriment  of  her  knotting,) 
shows  herself  as  willing  a  disciple,  as  Cousin  ever  won  over  to 
Kantism  and  the  "absolu."  Lord  John  and  Mr.  Liston  pair  off 
to  the  whist-table,  and  bet  high.  Lord  William  is  seated  by 
Miss  Fanny,  his  uplifted  hands  serving  as  a  reel,  off  which  she 
winds  her  gold  thread,  with  a  great  many  little  coquetries.  Lord 
Francis  spoils  the  reeling  and  the  flirtation  by  frequent  interrup- 
tions, for  want  of  something  else  to  do.  Lord  Leicester,  *'  pale 
et  de  fait,"  like  the  hero  of  a  French  novel,  takes  Mrs.  Primmer's 
vacated  chair,  and  yawns  and  sighs,  as  exhaustion  and  ennui 
dictate.] 

MLSS  FANNY. 
Now  do  be  quiet,   Francis  ;  you  are  as  mischievous  as 
mamma's  green  monkey. — Do  speak  to  him,  Lord  Lecies- 
ter  ;  he  has  broke  my  thread  again. 

LORD  LEICESTER. 
Speak  to  him  !  what,  as  representative  of  Mrs.  Primmer, 
I  suppose. — Well,  there  is  no  such  folly  as  bringing  home 
boys  for  the  holidays — school-boys  are  great  nuisances. 

LORD  FRANCIS. 
And  so  sometimes  are  boys  that  never  were  at  school,  but 
were  brought  up  at  their  mother's  apron-strings. 

MISS  FANNY,  (laughing.) 
Oh  !  that  is  a  hit  at  you,  Leicester,  I  remember.  My  aunt 
educated  you  herself.  The  other  boys  were  such  Pickles  !. 
— But  did  you  not  run  away  from  Dulhvhosehe  House  one 
day  ;  and  weren't  you  found  at  last  driving  the  Heavy  Bir- 
mingham— and  so,  was  put  into  the  army  at  fourteen,  to  keep 
you  out  of  mischief,  and  off  the  road? — [Thei/  laugh.'] 

LORD  LEICESTER,  (yawning.) 
Perhaps — it  may  be  so. — I  forget  all  about  it  now,  it  is  so 
long  ago — Je  suis  vieuzt  comme  les  rues  ! 

MISS  FANNY. 
Long  ago — how   long?     How  many  years  is  it  since? — 
Do  keep  your  hands  steady,  William. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  81 

LORD  LEICESTER. 
Years  ! — I  don't  count  by  years,  child,  but  by  epochs  ! 

MISS  FANNY. 
What  does  that  mean,  pray  ? — Francis,  do  be  quiet ! 

LORD  LEICESTER,  (rising  from  his  chair.) 

Oh  !  if  I  must  rise  to  explain,  I  bolt.  Frank,  my  boy, 
have  you  a  mind  to  risk  one  of  your  five  sovereigns  on  the 
ecarte  players  ? 

LORD  FRANCIS. 

Hang  the  five  sovereigns  ! — I'll  bet  you  what  you  choose. 
[As  they  turn  off.']  I  say,  Leicester,  Burton's  a  capital  fellow 
— he's  my  banker  here  ! 

LORD  LEICESTER. 

Yes  ;  but  take  care  what  you  are  about,  boy.  Some  tea 
years  hence — a  la  bonne  heure  ! 

LORD  FRANCIS. 

One  can  trust  Burton,  you  know.  Besides,  I  protect  young 
Burton,  his  son,  at  Eton. — I  say,  he's  such  a  mill  !  Do  you 
know  he  floored  the  Marquis  of  Marybonne  the  other  day,  for 
refusing  to  play  cricket  with  him,  because  he  is  the  son  of  a 
servant.  Marybonne  was  cock  of  the  walk,  before  little  Bur- 
ton came. 

[They  take  their  places  behind  the  6cart6  players.] 

MISS  FANNY. 
How  very  fond  of  play  that  foolish  boy  is  ! 

LORD  WILLIAM. 

^  Very.  John  would  take  him  to  Epsom,  and  to  the  Cock- 
pit, when  he  was  but  six  years  old,  and  make  him  bet.  It  is 
a  pity  ;  for  he  is  the  cleverest  of  us  all. 

MISS  FANNY. 

All  your  brothers  are  fond  of  play,  except  the  Duke  ? — But 
what  are  you  fond  of,  William,  besides  your  guitar  ? 

20 


CBfi  THE  EASTER    RECESS. 

LORD  WILLIAM. 

Fanny,  do  yoii  ask  that  ?     \liOolis  earnestly  at  her.] 

MISS  FANNY,  (blushing.) 
What  a  foolish  boy  ! — you  have  broke  my  thread  again. 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (reading  from  the  "Marriage  de  Figaro,"  to  Cecil  Ho- 
ward, who  is  lounging  beside  her.) 

"  Parceque  vous  etes  un  grand  Seigneur,  vous  vous  croyez 
un  grand  genie.  Noblesse,  fortune,  un  rang,  des  places ; 
tout  cela  rend  si  fier  !  Glu'avez  vous  fait  pour  tant  de  biens  ? 
Vous  vous  ^tes  do?i/ie  la  'pei7ie  de  naitre  !  et  rien  de  plus." 
It's  no  wonder  that  the  French  aristocracy  took  such  pains 
to  run  down  Beaumarchais.  His  comedy  is  the  quintessence 
of  political  philosophy ;  and  at  the  same  time,  a  camera  ob- 
scura,  in  which  every  vice  of  the  system  is  depicted, — from 
the  most  sweeping  public  injustice,  to  the  most  trivial  private 
absurdity.  The  manner  in  which  he  and  his  production 
were  discredited,  is  detailed  by  himself  in  his  preface,  with 
more  than  the  humour  of  his  celebrated  pleadings  ;  and  the 
passage  is  worth  preserving,  as  an  abridgment  of  the  whole 
theory  and  practice  of  hypocrisy,  a  Vusage  du  monde  liter- 
aire  et  fashionable. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
Nay,  he  had  no  reason  to  complain.  His  play  icas  played. 
Fancy  it  in  the  hands  of  our  deputy  licenser  !  It  certainly 
is  the  wittiest,  as  well  as  the  severest  production  of  the  French 
Revolution.  That  little  phrase,  "  se  donne  la  peine  de 
ndiire^^^  is  excellent ! 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
The  whole  passage  is  excellent.     It  is  the  highest  phil- 
osophy^  because  it  is  the  purest  truth. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
But  we,  again  I  repeat, — we  who  have  only  de  nous  don- 
ner  la  piene  de  naitre,  want  the  motive  :  we  are  born  to  that, 
for  which  other  classes  have  to  toil  and  labour. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
In   the  French    Revolution,    there  was  motive  enough, 
Heaven  knows.     But  the  greatest  pressure  of  circumstances 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  83- 

that  ever  called  for  human  exertion,  produced  no  genius 
among  the  emigrant  aristocracy  !  The  old  families  were 
worn  out.  The  genius  of  France,  of  England,  of  Europe 
belongs  to  another  race  and  structure,  than  that,  which  has 
only  to  *'  5C  donner  la  peine  de  naitre.'''  The  descendants  of 
les  soldats  Heureux^  of  those  who  made  kings  and  princes, 
— the  Hapsburgs,  the  Bourbons,  the  Braganzas,  the  De 
Montfords,  the  Mount  Twaddledums,  and  the  Dullwhosehes, 
have  long  exhausted  those  original  energies,  which  made  the 
founders  of  those  families,  "  the  best  of  cut-throats,"  in 
times  when  physical  force  governed  society,  and  laid  the 
foundations  of  those  inevitable  institutions,  which  have  be- 
come the  abuses  of  the  present  day.  The  philosophy  of  your 
mews  is  wanting  in  the  palaces  of  your  kings  and  the  man- 
sions of  your  nobles. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
Come,  there  is  something  in  that. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Oh  !  you  may  depend  upon  it.  Look  around  you  !  The 
highest  grades  of  European  society  are  becomiug  mere  play- 
ers of  billiards,  and  workers  of  tapestry, — menials  in  the 
palaces  of  kings,  where  they  are  so  delighted  to  serve,  and 
so  ready  to  be  trampled  upon,  and  sybarites  at  home,  the 
victims  of  their  own  idleness,  luxury,  and  selfishness.  In 
society,  they  are  the  patrons  of  a  corrupting  literature  ; — in 
the  senate,  the  conservatives  of  by-gone  institutes,  which 
always  violated  the  laws  of  nature,  and  are  now  utterly  in- 
applicable to  existing  interest ; — institutes  perpetuating  hab- 
its, destructive  of  health  of  body  and  force  of  mind  ;  giving 
to  the  nation,  a  few  over-weening  despots,  to  govern  its 
opinions,  by  the  enormity  of  their  concentrated  wealth  ;  and 
overflowing  it  with  multitudes  of  un gifted  and  improvident 
creatures,  that  prey  upon  society,  because  it  affords  them  no 
legitimate  provision.  Meantime,  the  class  of  the  Figaros  '*keep 
moving."  They  are  pushing  on  la  ronde  machine!  a  little 
too  rapidly,  perhaps  ;  but  still  it  is  not  your  dogged  resist- 
ance to  all  change,  that  will  slacken  their  movements,  or 
check  their  impulsions. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 

If  you  mean,  that  we  of  the  higher  classes  should  lend  a 


84  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

hand  to  upset  the  system  of  institutions,  by  which  we  our- 
selves exist,  and  by  which  we  are  convinced  that  the  whole 
frame  of  society  is  kept  together, — if,  to  prove  our  intellec- 
tual equality  with  the  middle  classes,  or  our  claim  to  the 
higher  range  of  philosophy,  we  must  be  false  to  our  order, 
and  surrender  our  time-honoured  privileges,  for  such  a 
miserable  remnant  of  power  and  property,  as  our  new  allies 
may  be  contented  to  spare  us  ;  why  then,   I  draw  in. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
I  mean  no  such  thing ;  I  neither  set  up  your  '*  system  of 
things"  as  an  idol,  nor  decry  it  as  a  chimera.  Whatever  of 
it  is  really  useful,  practical  and  applicable,  I  respect ;  and 
the  world  would  do  so  too  :  not  because  it  25  instituted,  but 
because  it  is  true  and  good,  and  wanting!  But,  as  it  is  not 
for  any  one  caste,  to  withstand  the  progress  of  necessary 
change,  so  it  is  not  for  any  fractional  portion,  even  of  the 
people  themselves,  to  give  an  wholesome  direction  to  reforms. 
Party,  at  best,  is  passion  ;  but  faction  is  madness  ;  and  if  in- 
stead of  coalescmg  for  a  common  good,  peers  or  people  choose 
t©  stand  aloof  from  each  other,  and  consult  alone  their  respec- 
iire  antipathies,  why  they  will  only  succeed  in  making  the 
nation  a  Bedlam  and  a  charnel-house.  Besides,  you  over- 
estimate your  strength  and  importance.  Events  are  more 
powerful  than  even  the  largest  masses.  They  hurry  forward 
the  very  persons  who  appear  to  impel  them.  At  the  present 
moment,  events  have  been  prepared  by  circumstances,  deep 
rooted,  and  converging  rapidly  to  a  point ;  and  that  point  is 
the  annihilation  of  aristocratic  influence,  and  the  growth  of 
another,  and  more  resistless  dominion.  The  hope  of  check- 
ing th©se  events,  and  controlling  their  march,  by  conserva- 
tive conspiracy,  is  folly  ;  but  the  alliance  of  the  conservatives 
with  their  natural  enemies,  the  destructives— the  effort  to 
overthrow  the  only  guarantees  for  moderation  and  wisdom, 
to  make  way  for  an  anarchical  revolt  of  pauperism  against 
property,  would  be  an  act  of  the  deepest  criminality,  if  it 
were  not  at  the  same  time  the  resuU  of  the  most  hopeless, 
helpless  imbecility. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
Nay,  according  to  your  own  showing,  we  have  nothing 
else  left  for  it ;  and  we  may  as  well  try  the  experiment  as  si^ 
idle. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  85 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
The  French  noblesse  tried  the  experiment,  and  with  what 
result  I  need  not  say :  bat  the  lesson  is  lost  upon  you  :  what 
must  be,  must ;  you  will,  you  can,  do  nothing  for  yourselves, 
or  for  us  :  you  will  not  be  the  break-water,  that  should  stem 
(not  stop)  the  influx  of  those  changes,  which  threaten  the 
most  iron-bound  shores  of  custom  and  authority.  When  all, 
however,  is  done,  and  a  new  order  of  things  is  setting  in — 
when  the  dove  shall  return  with  the  olive  branch,  just,  if  you 
please  (such  of  you  as  survive  the  deluge)  look  to  your  wo- 
men. The  destined  mothers  of  the  future  Solons,  and  Lycur- 
guses  of  England,  the  instructors  of  those  who  are  to  instruct 
and  regulate  their  species,  must  not  be  tapestry-workers,  and 
automata,  unreasoning,  unidead,  and  unawakened  ;  or  awak- 
ened only  through  their  uncontrolled,  and  therefore  uncon- 
trollable, passions. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
Oh  !  my  dear  Mrs.  O'Neal,  spare  me  the  sex  !  Kings, 
lords,  and  commons,  I  surrender  at  discretion  ;  the  Charles 
Street  gang  I  deliver  up  to  be  dealt  with  at  your  wisdom  and 
mercy :  but  the  women  !  for  heaven's  sake,  do  not  measure 
them  by  your  utilitarian  scale.  The  hard  hands  of  a  house- 
maid and  the  weather-beaten  features  of  your  itinerant  coun- 
trywomen, the  venders  of  green  peas  and  oranges,  are  infin- 
itely more  tolerable,  than  the  callosities  of  heart  and  of  mind, 
which  a  reasonable  education  would  inflict.  Who  could 
love  a  syllogizing  beauty,  or  adore  a  philosopher  in  petti- 
coats !  It  is  the  weakness,  the  helplessness  of  women,  that 
is  alone  truly  irresistible. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

There  again  is  another  heresy  of  your  caste.  Selfish  vo- 
luptuaries, you  would  sacrifice  even  your  offspring  to  your 
pleasures.  Is  it  not  the  temperament,  the  impressions,  the 
associations,  of  those  fair,  feeble,  efTcete  creatures — those 
night  blooming  primroses  of  society — that  must  determine 
the  bent,  the  creed,  the  principles,  the  mental  infirmity,  and 
corporael  debility  of  your  hot-bed  successors, — of  those  to 
whom  your  "  system"  would  consign  the  fate  of  millions  in 
perpetuity  ? 

CECIL  HOWARD. 

Why  that  to  be  snre,  is  rather  an  awful  consideration  ! 

20* 


S6  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Rather. — Look  then  a  little  more  to  your  stock,  to  your 
race  ;  look  to  the  rearing  of  those,  on  whom  it  depends  ;  not 
to  title,  ton,  or  fortune. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
What  would  you  have  one  do  ?  Advertize  for  a  wife,  as 
for  a  race-horse  ?  "  Wanting  a  healthy,  handsome,  gifted 
young  woman,  who  can  prove  a  descent  of  unblemished  and 
talented  parentage  from  the  fourth  generation.  Letters  di- 
rected, (post  paid,)  to  Cecil  Howard,  will  be  promptly  attend- 
ed to." 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (laughing.) 
And  why  not?  It  would  sound  as  well  as — "Wanted  a 
consumptive  imbecile,  with  three  estates  and  two  titles  center- 
ed on  her  head.  Lunacy  in  the  family  will  form  no  objec- 
tion." Well,  after  all,  there  is  no  such  fun  as  philosophy ; 
and  notwithstanding  your  affectation,  you  have  more  of  them 
both,  than  belongs  to  your  caste  and  breeding.  But  for  all 
Uiat,  you  will  go  the  old  way,  and  marry 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
Who? 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Lady  Alice  Montfort  de  Montfort,  who  is  come  of  a  race  of 
female  tapestry-workers  and  card  players,  since  the  time  of 
Ctueen  Anne. 

CECIL  HOWARD,  (starts  and  colours  :  he  affects  a  peculiar  dry  tone.) 
So  !     It  must  be  on  "  compulsion,"  then. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Yes,  the  compulsion  of  necessity.  The  dire  necessity  of 
previous  associations.  I  don't  say  you  will  marry  Lady 
Alice  in  propria  persona  ;  but  you  will  marry  the  thing  that 
comes  nearest  to  her  : — some  younger  sister,  with  the  same 
prestiges  of  ton  and  high  blood  ; — the  little  Lady  Euphemia, 
for  instance.  Oest  egal.  Your  die  is  cast :  and  as  for  Lady 
Alice,  if  she  does  not  marry  you,  she  will  marry  at  you,  to 
spite  and  mortify  you,  though  she  destroy  herself. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  87 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
As  how,  fair  sybil  ? 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
She  will  marry  something  the  reverse  of  you,  something 
to  pull   down  your   pride  ;  for  men  are  all  in  their  pride, — 
women  are  more  in  their  passions. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
And  who  is  he  to  be,  the  souffre  douleur  of  her  ladyship's 
resentment,  my  Madam  le  Noir  ? 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Who  ?  que  sais-je  ? — that  talking  potatoe,  there,  Mr.  Sul- 
livan, perhaps  !     Some  charlatan  or  other,  who  will  avail 
bimself  of  her  excited  feelings. 

CECIL  HOWARD,  (with  a  shout  of  laughter.) 
Oh,  par  example  celd  passe  outre.     Burn  your  book,  fair 
^ybil :  your  spell  is  broken  ;  your  art  lost.     Alice  Montford 
marry  an  Irish  adventurer  I     Blood  of  the  Mirables  I 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Well,  never  mind,   "  Tempo  e  galaniuomo.^^     He  always 
tells  truth  ;   and  time  will  justify  my  prediction,   however 
wild  it  seem. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
Well  then,  read  on.     False  or  true,  I  like  your  prophe- 
sying.    Se  non  e  vero,  e  hen  trovato  :  so  pray  dispose  of  the 
rest  of  the  party,  after  your  most  approved  manner. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
To  begin,  by  the  red-book,  with  the  Lady  Elizabeth,  trh 
haute  et  puissant  dame.  The  organ  of  the  family  aggran- 
dizement is  the  only  organ  developed  in  her  turbaned  head. 
Stupidly  persevering  in  one  permanent  idea,  and  always 
drowsily  at  work,  like  the  paddle  of  a  steam-engine,  she  will 
place  some  of  her  scampy  nephews,  and  marry  both  her  silly 
daughters  to  her  own  satisfaction  ;  and  then,  she  will  fall 
asleep,  some  fine  day,  "  so  very  nice,"  that  she  will  forget 
to  awaken  ;  and  so  be  gathered  to  her  stupid  mothers,  be- 
queathing their  dull  organization  to  unborn  races,  as  deficient, 
and  imbecile,  as  herself. 


88  THE  EASTER  RECESS. 

CECIL  HOWARD,  (laughing.) 
And  Lord  Mount-Twaddledum  ? 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Oh  !  he  will  twaddle  off,  with  his  head  full  of  les  families 
chapitrales,  true  to  his  family  device,  on  his  heriditary  seal ; 
and  (fortunately)  he  will  leave  no  successor  behind,  to  prop- 
agate the  feeble  but  haughty  race,  of  the  Mount-Twaddle- 
dums,  de  Twaddledum,  de  Boreum,  de  Prosingly  !  But  to 
go  on  with  "  les  puissances,^^  whether  of  caste,  or  wealth, — 
the  little  foolish  looking  Begum  of  Bengal,  there,  with  her 
bag  of  rupees,  will  *'  donner  dans  la  seigneurie  ;  and  if  her 
father  refuses  consent  for  her  marriage  with  the  Count,  or 
Lord  John,  (for  she  is  not  particular,)  she  will  probably 
elope  with  one  to  Gretna  Green,  and  afterwards  perhaps  with 
the  other,  Dieu  sait  ou  !  for  where  there  is  no  feeling,  there 
is  no  conduct.  Women,  without  that,  may  be  virtuous  by 
chance  ;  but  the  profligate  are  ever  passionless — and  insen- 
sibility and  honesty  are  all  but  incompatible. 

CECIL  HOWARD,  (sighing.) 
Oh  if  you  knew  how  true  that  is  !     And  old  Tippoo,  how 
do  you  dispose  of  him  ? 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Old  Tippoo,  finding  that  nabobs  are  no  longer  (out  of 
India)  the  Burrah  Sahibs,  they  were  in  the  days  of  Warren 
Hastings  ;  and  that  the  English  Burrah  beebees  will  accept 
of  all  his  Trichinopolies,  and  his  kingcobs,  without  even  re- 
membering whence  they  came — will  return  whence  he  came, 
to  flog  his  Jemadars,  bamboo  his  Herkarahs,  taste  once  more 
the  sweets  of  pure  despotism,  and  die  of  the  cholera, — just  as 
his  carriage  awaits  to  take  him  to  the  tiffin  of  some  great 
lady,  the  queen  of  fashion  of  the  Chouringhee. 


CECIL  HOWARD. 


And  the  Count  ? 


MRS.  O'NEAL. 
The  little  Count !  why  if  the  legitimates  should  be  restor- 
ed, he  will  be  sent  over  here  as  ambassador,  the  future  Po- 
lignac  of  Henry  the  Fifth,  or  the  Talleyrand  of  some  politi- 
cal petticoat  coterie,     [goes  to  a  table,  and  takes  her  chamber 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  Oy 

light.]  And  now,  as  the  ghost  sa^^s,  "  Dismiss  me — enough  ! 
my  hour  is  come." 

[Points  to  the  pendule  on  the  chimney  piece,  which  strikes  twelve. 
He  holds  her  hand  to  detain  her.] 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
Stay  yet  one  moment  !   One  word  more. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
You  want  another  word  !  about   yourself!  but  the  cock 
Crows,  and  the  ghost  vanishes. 

CECIL  HO  WAD,  (still  detaining  her.) 
One  word  more ;  for  I  really  have  faith  in  your  prophe- 
cies. 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (putting  up  her  finger.) 

Euphemia! 

[Exit.I 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
How  very  odd !  I  have  never  breathed  the  thought ; — 
never — scarcely  to  myself.     [Shakes  his  head  and  smiles.'] 
Well,  what  must  be,  must,  I  suppose.         She  is  quite  right. 

LADY  ELIZABETH,  (whose  half-closed  eyes  are  reconnoitering  the 

different  parties.) 

Cecil  Howard,  do  hold  my  cards,  will  you?  Colonel  St. 
Leger,  make  Fanny  go  to  the  piano  and  sing  "  E  vezzosa  ; 
si  la  rosa  ;"  'tis  so  very  nice.  William  Fitzforward,  give 
me  your  arm  child  !  Mr.  Sullivan,  do  push  me  forvv^ard 
tha-t  prie  dieu  chair!  there  ;  'tis  such  a  change  !  Now  do 
tell  me  about  the  Court  Journal.  Are  you  really  the  editor  ? 
or  Sir  Walter  Scott,  or  who?  He  is  so  very  ill,  a'n't  hel 
And  Mr.  Rogers  ! — he  is  so  very  clever,  the  Age  says  ; — 
and — O  ! — well — there — thank  you  .' 

[Lady  Elizabeth  having  de-composed  and  re-composed  the  whola 
society,  according  to  her  views,  and  for  the  better  carrying  on  of 
her  schemes,  toddles  back  to  her  place  at  the  card-table,  and  hav- 
ing given  one  glance  of  perfect  satisfaction  to  ihe  piano- forte,  where 
Col.  St.  Leger  hang^s,  as  enamoured  over  Miss  Fanny's  chair,  as  he 
had  done  a  moment  before  over  Miss  Darner's, — whist  resumes  its 
influence ;  until  the  entrance  of  trays  preludes  the  retreat  of 
the  younger  members,  and  restores  the  exhausted  energies  of  the 
elders,  for  a  fresh  rubber,  and  higher  betting.] 


90  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 


SCENE  IV. 


[The  great  hall  and  stairs  of  D House.    Time,  midnight.  The 

hall  is  crowded  to  excess  with  servants,  in  liveries  of  every  colour, 
in  and  out  of  the  rainbow,  intermingled  with  chasseurs,  and  foreign 
lacquies.  The  livery  servants  of  the  house  are  arranged  in  single 
file,  on  either  side.  The  Grooms  of  the  Chamber,  and  the  maitre 
d'hotel,  occupy  the  first  landing-place,  and  the  corridor  leading  to 
the  suite  of  rooms.  The  hall  porter's  stentorian  voice  is  heard  in 
successive  roulades,  announcing  arrivals,  departures,  carriages  that 
"  stop  the  way,"  and  calls  for  carriages  that  are  wanted  to  stop  the 
way.  The  stairs  and  corridor  are  crowded  to  suffocation  with  the 
elite  of  rank,  fashion,  beauty,  and  notability  of  London  in  particular, 
and  Europe  in  general.  The  press  is  occasioned  by  stoppage  of 
door-ways,  flirtations,  causeries,  and  other  similar  incidental  reun- 
ions of  the  beau  monde. 

PORTER. 
Lady  Mount-Mangerton's  carriage !      Duchess  of  Dull- 
whosehe  !     Lady  Mount-Mangerton's  carriage  not  up. 

GROOMS  OF  THE  CHAMBER. 
Duchess  of  Dullwhosehe ! 

DUCHESS,  (laughing,  nodding,  and  elbowing  her  way  up.) 
How  do,  Lord  Englantine  ?     Do  help  me  on  a  little,  will 
you  ?     Dear,  'tis  so  tiresome  ! 

PRINCE  VON  HOCHEN  HAUSEN. 
Bon  soir,  belle  Duchesse !     Voire  Grace  vient  de  I'opera  ? 

DUCHESS. 
Pour  mes  peches. 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBERS. 
The  Duke  of  Dullwhosehe's  carriage  ! — Duke  of  Dull- 
whosehe's  carriage  !     The  Duke  is  coming  down  ! 

[The  Duke  and  Duchess  meet.] 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  01 

DUKE,  (pettishly.) 
Georgina  !  what  on  earth  has  kept  you  so  late  ? 

DUCHESS,  (sharply.) 
Late  !  now  what  do  you  call  late  ?     I  left  the  ballet  not  half 
finished.     I  could  not  get  Euphemia  away. 

PORTER. 
The  Duke  of  Dullwhosehe's  carriage  stops  the  way. 

[They  pass  on.] 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHA.JMBERS. 
Coming  down. 

PORTER,  FOOTMEN,  and  GROOMS  OF  THE  CHAMBERS, 
(reiteratedly.) 

Lady  Mount-Man gerton's  carriage  ! 

PORTER. 

Lord  John  Fitzforward  !     Lord  Leicester  Fitzforward  ! 

[A  great  struggle.  The  two  Lords  force  the  pass;  but  halt  halfway, 
to  talk  and  increase  the  crowd.] 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBERS. 
Mr.  Cecil  Howard's  carriagfe ! 

o 

PORTER. 
Ready  ! 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBERS. 
Mr.  Cecil  Howard  is  coming  down. 

SERVANT'S,  (severally.) 
Lady  Mount-Man — ger- — ton's  carriage  ! 

[A  general  [augh.] 

LORD  LEICESTER. 
Where  are  you  going,  Howard,  so  early  ? 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
To  the  House. 


92  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

LORD  LEICESTER. 
It's  rather  late  for  that — is'nt  it  ? 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
No  ;  I  only  left  it  half  an  hour  ago,  to  make  my  bow 
here,  and  meet  my  wife,  who  wants  to  go  to  the  ventilator, 
to  hear  Sir  Robert.     But  as  I  left  Sullivan  on  his  legs,  and 
he  has  orders  to  talk  against  time,  I  have  an  hour  at  least. 

LORD  JOHN. 

How  that  fellow  has  got  on,  to  be  sure ! 

LORD  EGLANTINE. 

Isn't  he  the  Irish  adventurer,  that  Lady  Alice  Montfort 
went  off  with,  after  refusing  half  the  jiouveaux'  riches  in 
London  ?  By-t he-bye,  Howard,  you  were  talked  off  with 
her,  when  I  left  England.  How  came  it  you  didn't  marry 
her  ?  i  :i 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
Simply  because — I  married  her  sister. 

LORD  EGLANTINE,  (afTectedly.) 
Oh,  true  !    I  do  make  such  mistakes  !     I  have  lived  so 
much  abroad  !     One  never  sees  Lady  Alice  about.     I  hear 
she  is  ashamed  of  her  husband, — has  turned  Methodist,  and 
is  going  out  on  a  mission. 

LORD  JOHN. 

For  a  man  who  has  lived  so  much  abroad,  Eglantine,  you 
have  picked  up  a  devilish  deal  of  what  has  been  going  on  at 
home ! 

THE  DUCHESS,  (still  getting  on.) 

If  you  wait  for  Euphemia,  Cecil,  j^ou  will  wait  some  time. 
She  ivill  see  the  new  ballet  out.  This  is  always  the  way 
with  debutantes ;  but  they  soon  tire  of  that. 

CECIL  HOWARD,  (annoyed,  and  looking  at  his  watch.) 

I  shall  give  her  ten  minutes,  and  then  be  off.  She  is 
always  behind  her  time. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  93 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBERS. 
Countess  of  Derwentwater's  carriage. 

LORD  JOHN. 
So,  this   is  Fanny  Darner's   first  appearance  since  het 
marriage. 

PORTER. 

Countess  of  Derwentwater's  carriage  stops  the  way. 
[Lady  Der  went  water  and  her  sister,  Miss  Darner,  push  down.  They 
are  in  deep  mourning;  and  are  attended  by  Lord  W.  Fitzforward. 

LADY  DERWENTWATER  (to  the  Duchess.) 
How  do,  Georgina  ? 

DUCHESS. 
How  do,  dear  ?     Why  are  you  taking  Augusta  away  so 
soon  ?     Leave  her  with  me. 

LADY  DERWENTWATER. 

Thank  you,  love.  This  is  our  first  night,  you  know, 
\_Looks  at  her  mourning.]  And  neither  Augusta  nor  I 
dance,  we  are  in  such  verp  deep  mourning.  ]  Thei/  pass  on»^ 

LORD  JOHN,  (to  Lord  Eglantine.) 
How  very  much  Fanny  Damer  is  improved  !     Since  her 
marriage,  she  has  got  an  a  plomb,  which  she  wanted  much. 
Au  reste,   'tis  a  wretched  marriage,  in  point  of  disparity  of 
years  ;  if  that  signified  much. 

LORD  EGLANTINE. 
Is  Derwentwater  very  old  ?     I  have  been  so  long  abroad, 
I  forget  every  body. 

LORD  JOHN. 

You  must  have  known  Montague  St.  Leger  of  the  Guards, 
who  succeeded  to  his  uncle,  the  late  Lord  Derwentwater. 

LORD  EGLANTINE. 
St.  Leger!     You  don't  mean  the  dowager  dandy  of  the 
reign  of  the  Brummels;  who's  mot  to  his  French,  tailor, 

21 


9i  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

when  he  brought  home  his  pa/ntalons  collants,  "  si  fy-entre, 
je  ne  les  prends  pass,^^ — furnished  Potier  with  the  best  trait 
of  his  "  Ci-devant  Jeune  Homines 

LORD  JOHN. 
Indeed  I  do  !     He  is  a  greater  dandy  now  than  ever,  and 
wears  amazingly  well. 

LORD  EGLANTINE. 

But  he  is  old  enough  to  be  that  pretty  creature's  father. 
She  looks  as  if  she  were  still  in  leading-strings. 

LORD  JOHN. 

Yes,  and  so  she  ought  to  be.  She  is  a  regular  Becky ; 
she  would  have  married  my  brother  William,  without  a  shil- 
ling, if  she  had  not  been  prevented.  But  she  has  made  a 
famous  match.  Her  mother  has  been  working  at  it  these 
ten  years.  From  Fanny's  childhood  she  shut  her  up  in  a 
box  ;  let  her  out  only  on  old  St.  Leger  ;  and  having  fulfilled 
lier  vocation,  died  of  an  apoplexy,  caught  by  a  surfeit  at  the 
marriage  festivities,  a  few  weeks  back. 

LORD  EGLANTINE. 
La  pauvre  ferame  !     Who  was  she,  pray?    I  forget  every 
body  ;  I  have  been  so  long  from  England. 

LORD  JOHN. 

Lady  Elizabeth  Darner, — my  auut. 

LORD  EGLANTINE. 
Beg  pardon,  a  thousand  times  !     What  gaucherie  ! 

LORD  JOHN. 
Make  no  apologies,  pray.     [  They  pass  on."] 

[Cecil  Howard  remains  with  his  glass  to  his  eye,  looking  down  the 
stairs  anxiously.] 

SIR  WILLIAM  LIGHTHEAD. 
If  you  don't  take  care,  Howard,  you  will  crush  that  Lady's 

haM* 

[Cecil  Howard  turns,  and  perceives  a  lady  seated  on  the  stairs,  in 
earnest  conversation  with  a  foreigner.    She  draws  away  her  hand.] 


THE  Easter  recess.  95 


MR.  HOWARD. 


I  heg  a  thousand  pardons  !     I  hope  I  have  done  no  mis- 
chief. 

THE  LADY,  (looking  up.) 
None  whatever, — to  me  at  least. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
Good  heavens  !  Mrs,  O'Neal !  I  am  delighted  to  see  you* 
'Tis  an  age  since  we  met  : — not  since  that  Easter  Recess,  at 
the  Cliff,  two  years  ago.  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  the 
Pontine  Marshes,  or  the  Bog  of  Allen  ?  [He  seats  himself 
a  step  below  her.] 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
I  only  arrived  in  town  last  night,  from  "  the  castellated 
Rhine."  And  here  I  am,  under  the  special  protection  of 
Madam  de  Montolieu,  who  brought  me  here  ;  and  for  whom, 
"  patience  per  force,"  I  am  waiting,  far  beyond  my  ghostly 
hour  of  retreat. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
So  be  sure  ;  I  remember.     You  were  always  for  bringing 
in  a  bill  for  the  promotion  of  early  hours.     But  it  is  jj^easant 
to  meet  you  at  any  hour  ;  you  are  always  a  flapper. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

Yes  ;  but  I  am  accused  of  flapping,  sometimes,  a  little  too 
hard — very  unjustly  though. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
That  is  true,  I  bear  witness — I  tell  every  one  you  are  th« 
best-natured  woman ! 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
With  the  "  worst-n3LtuTed  muse  !"  eh  ?     [Laughing.] 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
No  ;  your'muse  is  a  true  Irish  muse — ^a  little  wild  and  very- 
amusing.     It  is  only  when  you  part  company  from  her  fan- 
tastic inspirations,  and  get  upon  fact,  that  you  are  rather  se- 
vere, and  certainly  very  anti-romantic. 


9(1  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
That  is,  when  I  draw  from  the  life,  my  pictures  have  some 
resemblance   to  the  originals.     You  would  not  have  a  Ta- 
bleau de  genre  resemble  a  Salvator  Rosa,  would  you  ? 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
No ;  but  I  should  prefer  a   Salvator  to  a  Teniers.     I  am 
weary  of   facts.     But   haven't   you  been  up    stairs?     The 
crowd  is  tremenduous — still,  if  you  will  trust  me  to  pioneer 
you,  I  will  return  sur  mes  pas. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Thank  you ;  I  have  already  risked  suffocation,  and  have 
narrowly  escaped.  I  am  so  seldom  in  town,  that  such  occa- 
sions of  seeing  what  is  going  on,  are  not  to  be  neglected. 
With  the  exception  of  the  music  saloon,  in  which  I  got 
crushed,  all  the  other  magnificent  apartments  were  left  silent 
and  cool.  In  one  I  saw  a  solitary  chaperon  dozing  on  a  divan. 
In  another,  a  pretty  delaisse  making  a  tete-a-tete  with  Cano- 
Ta's  divine  Magdalene  ;  and  looking  quite  as  triste,  if  not 
as  penitent — while  in  the  farthest  room  I  stumbled  upon 
a  pair  of  silly  candidates  for  a  column  in  the  Morning  Post, 
whose  flirting  had  they  carried  it  on  in  a  crowd,  would  have 
escaped  notice.  These  excepted,  the  whole  suite  was  va- 
cant. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 

To  he  sure  :  man  is  a  gregarious  animal,  and  woman  also  ; 
and  to  squeeze  and  be  squeezed  is  a  first  law  of  nature,  or  of 
ton.  Are  you  going  to  give  us  any  thing  this  season,  Mrs. 
O'Neal  ?     We  are  horribly  d  sec. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Nothing — I  have  nothing  new  to  say  ;  and  if  the  patient 
public  will  read  old  things  newly  vamped  to  order,  I  cannot 
write  them.     "  II  me  faut  du-  nouveau;   rCen  fut-il  plus  av, 
monde, 

CECIL  HOWARD,  (with  a  suppressed  sigh.) 
Yes,  'tis  the  greatest  want, — society's  so  rouiiniert^  the 
young  women  are  so  insipid,  and  the  old  so  hornl  I 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  fSf^ 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 


And  the  men  ? 


CECIL  HOWARD. 
Are  just  what  the  women  make  them  ! 

MRS.  O'NEAL, 
There  is  the  secret  of  the  whole  philosophy  of  society,  or 
it's  economy  rather.     I  shall  take  your  concentrated  axiom 
for  a  text,  and  write  a  book  on  it,  when  this  epoch  of  transi- 
tion is  passed,  and  people  may  again  have  time  to  read  one. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
Here  is  an  author  a  la  mode,  who  waits  for  no  such  intel- 
lectual millennium  ;  but  writes  on  through  all  *'  seasons  and 
their  changes."  [He  points  to  a  very  all-alive  young  man^ 
who  flutters  about  Mrs.  O'Neal,  to  the  utmost  range  of  his 
sphere,  and  then  whispers  Mr.  Howard.] 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
Mrs.  O'Neal,  here  is  a  brother  chip,  (or  a  "  kindred  spirit," 
I  should  say,  in  Album  language,)  desires  the  honour  of  being 
presented  to  you — the  Honourable  Captain  Sir  William  Light- 
head,  A.  D.  C,  Grand  Cross,  and  Ex-Magnus  Apollo  of  the 
once  siveetest  of  Annuals,  "the  Violet,"  whose  '*  supplianee 
of  a  moment"  has  ceased  during  your  absence. 

SIR  WILLIAM,  (bows,  flutters,  and  laughs.) 
Come  now,  Howard,  you  really  make  me  blush.     Tallrt)f 
my  light  effusions,  to  such  an  author  as  Mrs.  O'Neal ! 

CECIL  HOWARD, 
Light!  dark,  you  mean, — duplus  beaunoir,  I  assure  you, 
Mrs.  O'Neal,  if  you  have  not  read  his  "Season  of  Sorrow," 
his  "  Ode  to  Death,"  and  his  "  Anecdotes  of  the  Grave,"  you 
have  read  nothing ;  they  are  the  rage. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Yes  ;  that  is  always  the  way  with  you  amateur  and  aris- 
tocratic authors :    you  think  you  can  never  be  sufficiently 
"  gentleman-like  and  melancholy."     While  we  of  the  trade, 
writing  to  Vactualite  de  la  chose,  (as  the  new  French  phrase 

21* 


9S  THE  EASTER  RECESS. 

mns,)  must  write  for  the  times,  and  not  for  a  caste.  Besides, 
we  who  write  in  earnest,  bring  a  different  temperament  and 
view  of  life  to  the  task. 

GROOxM  OF  THE  CHAMBERS. 

Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Montolieu's  carriage  ! 

[Mrs.  O'Neal  starts  up ;  but  perceiving  Madame  la  Comtesse  wedg- 
ed in  above,  resumes  her  seat.] 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Isn't  there  an  unusual  press  to-night — what  is  it  ?     Every 
one  seems  to  be  crushed  on  the  landing-place,  like  the  victims 
of  the  black-hole  in  Calcutta,  or  the  anxious  spectators  of  a 
royal  trouss&au  in  the  good  old  times  of  the  Restoration. 

SIR  WILLIAM  LIGHTHEAD. 
Can't  the  least  guess  the  reason  ;  unless  it's  Lady  Mount- 
Mangerton,  the  new  Irish  peeress,  who  has  got  possession 
of  one  of  the  door-ways.  There  will  be  neither  ingress  nor 
egress,  till  that  fair  redundancy  of  Irish  aristocracy  clears 
out. 

THE  PORTER,  (with  angry  vehemence.) 
Lady  Mount-Mangerton's  carriage  stops  the  way. 

SIR  WILLIAM. 

Oh!  does  it?  There  it  must  stop,  then.  You  will  as 
soon  move  Mangerton  mountain  itself,  and  the  lakes  of  Kil- 
larney  along  with  it,  till  this  lady  of  many  coronets  has 
"  prated  of  her  whereabouts"  to  the  whole  neighbourhood  of 
Picadilly.  The  link  boys  have  been  calling  her  carriage 
from  Hyde  Park  Corner  to  the  Haymarket  this  hour,  till  the 
very  echoes  of  Kensington  repeat  the  sound. 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
How  did  she  get  here  ? 

SIR  WILLIAM 
You'll  hardly  guess.     Her  husband,  who  ratted  from  the 
Orange  party,  in  Ireland,  wanted  an  English  peerage  ;   but 
the  Premier  has  put  him  off  for  the  present,  by  getting  my 
lady  a  card  for  an  exclusive  party  at.  this  exclusive  house. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  99 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBERS. 
Lady  Mount-Mangerton  is  coming  down. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Oil !   there,  the  relief  bill  is  passed  at  last  ! 

[As  Lady  Mount-Mangerton  flounders  down,  there  is  a  general 
draw  back,  lo  make  way  for  her  descent,  as  if  she  came  tumbling 
in  a  parachute.  Sir  Wilham  returns  her  famihar  nod,  with  a  rev- 
erential bow  and  insinuating  smile.] 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
What  a  salam  !   You  know  then  this  donna  d* import aytz a  1 

SIR  WILLIAM. 
Yes,  to  be  sure  ;  she  is  a  very  important  lady — in  Dublin. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
And  you  are  grateful  for  dinners  yet  to  come  in  Merrion 
Square,  and  for  battus  in  embryo,  at  Mangerton   Castle,  in 
the  kingdom  of  Kerry. 

SIR  WILLIAM. 
I  plead  guilty  to  the  soft  impeachment. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Your  regiment  I  take  it  for  granted,  is  quartered  in  Dub- 
lin ? 

SIR  WILLIAM. 

It  has  the  supreme  felicity  of  being  stationed  in  the  bar- 
racks of  Beggar's  Bush,  in  the  vicinity  of  Merrion  Square  ; 
where  I  am  permitted  to  revolve  round  that  resplendent  body, 
which  has  just  now  shot  from  her  orbit. 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (laughing.) 
And  you  are  preparing  for  the  transit  of  Mars.  The  lives 
of  you  military  men  are  made  up  of  strange  vicissitudes  ! — 
Almack's  to-night,  Donnybrook  Fair  to-morrow  ;  Burlington 
House  and  Beggar's  Bush,  all  in  the  same  week.  These 
"  piping  times  of  peace"  are  charming  things  ;  they  have 
done  more  for  you  military  than  almost  for  any  other  class. 


100  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

SIR  WILLIAM. 
You  think  that  ? 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 

To  be  sure  :  they  have  taken  you  out  of  habits  of  blood 
and  blind  obedience,  enlisted  you  in  the  ranks  of  citizenship, 
left  you  time  to  think,  and  given  you  motive  for  conduct ; — 
men  now,  (machines  before,)  you  have  obtained  a  brevet 
rank  in  the  great  army  of  humanity,  and  are  re-incorporated 
with  your  species, — from  which  thirty  years  of  sanguinary 
policy  had  divided  you. 

SIR  WILLIAM  LIGHTHEAD,  (eagerly.) 
Pray  let  me  come  and  talk  this  matter  over  with  you — or 
rather  read  it.     I  have   finished  a   poem  in  six  cantos  on 
this  very  subject,  called  the  '*  Pleasures  of  Peace." 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (with  affected  terror.) 
A  poem  !  in  cantos,  too  ! — "  Take  any  form  but  that,  and 
my  firm  nerve  will  never  shrink  !  "  Besides,  in  these  rail- 
road and  steam-engine  times,  all  that  need  be  said  on  any 
subject,  may  be  said  in  a  squeeze  on  a  staircase,  while  philo- 
sophy Avaits  for  its  carriage,  or  genius  (which  rarely  posses- 
ses one)  for  its  link-boy's  vociferated  *'  Number  a  hundred 
and  seventy-five,"  which  haply  may  condense  a  thought  into 
a  phrase,  and  turn  an  essay  into  an  epigram, 

SIR  WILLIAM  LIGHTHEAD. 
Well ;  though  this  be  true,  still  I  mean  to  show  in  my 
poem,  which  is  rather  didactic,  that  the  present  state  of  soci- 
ety  

HALL  PORTER. 
Sir  William  Lighthead's  carriage  stops  the  way. 

SIR  WILLIAM  LIGHTHEAD. 
I  must  be  ofi*,  or  I  am   here  till  morning !     Au  revoir  ! 
delighted  to  have  had  the  honor  of  making  your  acquaint- 
ance !     [Bustles  down.] 

FOOTMAN. 
Sir  Willian  Lightfoot  is  coming  down. 


THE    EASTER    RECESS.  101 

MRS.  O'NEAL  AND  CECIL  HOWARD, 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  I 

CECIL  HOWARD. 
A  rapid  illustration  of  your  axiom  ! 

SERVANTS. 
Lady  Euphemia  Howard ! 
[Mr.  Howard  ceases  to  laugh,  and  starts  up.     Meets  Mrs.  O'Neal's 
eye,  and  colours.    A  fair,  fade,  distinguished-looking  girl  ascends 
the  stairs  with  languid  listlessness.     She  pauses  to  talk  with  Lord 
Eglantine,  and  backs  with  him  into  a  corner. 

MRS.  O'NEAL,  (smiling.) 
It  is  late,  I  suppose,  to  wish  you  joy,  Mr.  Howard  ?    I  did 
not  know  you  were  married.     How  like  Lady  Alice  Lady 
Euphemia  is  grown  ! 

MR.  HOWARD,  (confusedly.) 
Well,  you  were  a  true  prophetess,  you  see. 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Of  the  Cassandra  school !  I  have  predicted  many  strange 
things,  of  more  importance  than  that,  (which  is  to  you  the 
most  important  of  all  things,)  and  have  been  anathematized 
and  read  out  by  bell,  book,  and  candle-light,  by  every  party 
in  turn,  for  the  unwelcome  intelligence.  But  time  has  stood 
my  friend,  and  in  its  '^whirligig  hath  brought  about  my 
revenges:'  Was  I  not  right  when  I  said,  at  the  Cliff,  that 
"  Tempo  e  galantuomo:'  [Mr.  Howard  silently  nods  as- 
sent.] 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBERS. 

Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Montolieu  is  coming  down. 

[Mrs.  O'Neal  joins  her  friend.     They  are  attended  to  their  carriage 
by  Cecil  Howard,  who  passes  his  wife,  without  noticing  her.] 

CECIL  HOWARD,  (putting  Mrs.  O'Neal  into  her  carriage.) 
Where  are  you  to  be  found  ? 

MRS.  O'NEAL. 
Here  to-night ;  but  where  to-morrow  ?     So  don't  trouble 
yourself  to  look  for  me.      The  meetings  of  accident  are 


102  THE    EASTER    RECESS. 

always  the  pleasantest — because,  perhaps,  they  are  usually 
the  shortest — A  rivederla  ! 

MR.  HOWARD. 
A  rivederla ;  and  soon,  I  hope  ;  be  it  where  it  may. 

HALL  PORTER. 
Drive    on,   coachman ! — Mr.    Cecil    Howard's    carriage 
stops  the  way  ! 

MR,  HOWARD,  (springing  in.) 

To  the  house ! 


TEMPER. 


TEMPER. 


CHARACTERS. 


Mr.  We  NT  worth. — The  only  son  and  heir  of  a  late  wealthy  mer- 
chant, well  known  upon  'Change.  Mr.  Wenlworth,  is  well-looking, 
well-educated,  husband  to  the  woman  of  his  choice,  and  father  to  two 
beautiful  children. 

Mrs.  Wentworth. — His  young  and  pretty  wife;  accomplished, 
amiable,  and  sweet  tempered. 

Mrs.  Godfrey. — Mother  of  Mrs.  Wentworth,  a  woman  of  strong 
mind,  considerable  attainments,  and  extensive  reading.  She  has  p  o- 
duced  an  anonymous  work,  on  the  Education  of  Infants,  which,  through 
its  prevailing  tone  of  philosophy,  failed  ;  and  another,  a  inystification,  on 
Poonah  paintms,  which  succeeded.  She  is  the  fairest  specimen  of  the 
best  educated  women,  of  the  rank  she  illustrates. 

Frank  Eveston. — Lieutenant  of  his  Majesty's  Life  Guards,  and  son  ot 
a  retired  merchant  of  Bloomsbury  Square.  His  ambition  is  to  be  a  man 
of  fashion;  and  he  fancies  he  succeeds,  by  adopting  the  follies  and  vices 
of  the  circle,  into  which  he  finds  it  so  difficult  to  obtain  admittance.  He 
is  the  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Wentworth. 

Mrs.  Wilson. — Mrs.  Wentworth's  maid. 

Denis  O'Dowd. — An  Lish  servant,  picked  up  during  an  excursion  to 
the  lakes  of  Killarney;  and  engaged  in  the  service  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wentworth,  for  his  amusing  absurdities  ;  which,  though  very  entertaining 
at  the  Kenmare  Arms,  Killarney,  (where  he  was  "Boots,")  are  by  no 
means  useful  in  London.  His  master  has  twenty  times  made  up  his 
mind  to  part  with  Denis;  but  Denis  has  made  up  his,  not  to  part  with  his 
master, — who,  though  passionate,  is  kind  and  generous. 

Mr.  Reynolds. — A  Surgeon  of  great  professional  and  scientific 
eminence  ;  and  a  friend  of  the  Godfrey  family. 

William.— Mr.  Wentworth's  Butler. 

Housemaid. 

23 


SCENE  I. 


[Mr.  "VVentvvorth's  house  in  Russell  Square.  A  drawing-room  open- 
ing by  a  folding  door  into  another,  which  terminates  in  a  well-filled 
conservatory.  The  furniture  is  costly,  and  in  the  extremity  of  the 
fashion.  A  harp,  a  piano-forte,  a  ^Uablefenillet<fe,^^  covered  with 
prints,  albums,  and  other  testimonials,  showing  educated  habits. 
A  French  '■^  secretaire,^''  open,  and  scattered  with  elegant  writing 
materials  occupies  a  corner.  Other  little  objects  peculiar  to  the 
salons  of  Paris,  prove  that  Bloomsbury,  if  out  of  the  pale  of  London 
fashionable  topography,  is  not  out  of  the  line  of  European  refine- 
ment. A  moveable  book-case  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and 
is  filled  with  the  latest  productions  in  French,  Italian,  and  English. 
Tl>e  verandah  blooms  with  exotics,] 

[Enter,  as  from  riding,  Mr.  Wentworth,  flushed,  heated,  and  lan- 
guid. He  looks  about,  with  the  air  of  a  man,  who  wants  something 
to  find  fault  with. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
Those  eternal  windows  !  [Shuts  them  all  with  violence.'] — 
Emily  doesn't  care  in  the  least  who  suffers,  if  she  enjoys  the 
fresh  air, — as  she  calls  the  roast-beef  odours  of  a  Bloomsbury 
atmosphere.  And  then,  when  one  comes  in,  heated  from 
a  long  ride,  with  this  current  of  air  rushing  by  one,  like 
a  tornado,  it's  no  wonder  if  one  catches  cold  !  She  "  lives 
in  the  air,  and  never  gets  cold."  Women  are  such  selfish 
animals  !  [Flings  his  hat,  whip,  aud  gloves,  on  the  table, 
among  the  knick-knacks,  and  oversets  a  vase  of  flowers.  The 
water  streams  over  a,  volume  of  French  caricatures.  He 
laughs.] — I  am  delighted  !  Emily  will  never  be  cured  of 
stuffiing  every  table  with  expensive  trash,  until  every  thing 
is  spoiled  or  broken.  Not  to  reserve  a  place  even  to  put  one's 
gloves  on — 'tis  too  ridiculous  !  What  a  slavery  is  fashion  ! 
what  fools  are  women  ! 

[He  throws  himself  on  an  ottoman,  flings  his  dusty  boots  on  a  silken 
couvre-pied,  and  yawns  repeatedly.  He  then  suddenly  starts  up  ; 
and  drawing  down  all  the  blinds,  breaks  the  springs,  and  sinks 
again  on  his  couch.] 


TEMPER.  107 

How  I  hate  a  square,  with  its  rank  churchyard  grass, 
and  dust-coloured  trees  ;  its  eternal  children,  and  children's 
maids  ! — above  all,  Russell  Square  !  I  would  as  soon  live 
in  one  of  Owen's  parallelograms,  as  in  such  a  square  as  this. 
Croker  was  quite  right :  his  terra  iHcognita  was  famous  ! 
Alas  !  he  was  too  happy,  in  not  happening  to  know  any  thing 
of  it.  /  have  known  nothing  else, — Eton,  Cambridge,  and 
my  trips  to  the  continent  excepted.  [Sighs.]  Well,  this  shall 
be  my  last  year.  I'll  let  this  odious  house— purchase  Judge 
Fitzherbert's  place  in  Surrey — take  lodgings  for  myself  in  the 
Albany — and  settle  my  wife  and  the  children  in  the  country. 
[Enter  the  Housemaid,  with  her  shawl  and  bonnet  on,  who  begins 
to  close  the  shutters.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (sharply.) 

What  are  you  about,  there  ? 

HOUSEMAID. 
Oh,  dear  me,  I  beg  pardon,  sir.    Please,  sir,  I  thought  you 
and  my  mistress  had  gone  out  to  dinner  over  the  way,  at  Mrs. 
Godfrey's,  as  it  is  Sunday,  sir. 

[He  frowns  awfully  at  her  ;  she  escapes  in  a  fright.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
Because  it  is  Sunday  ! — Sunday  in  London  is  a  day  set 
apart  for  every  species  of  bore,  annoyance,  ejmui,  and  vul- 
garity. The  house  is  to  be  shut  at  noon-day,  because  it  is 
Sunday,  and  the  housemaid  must  go  and  walk.  I  am  to  dine 
at  Mr.  Godfrey's,  "  over  the  way,"  because  it  is  Sunday; 
and  since  the  servants  all  expect  to  go  out,  and  Mrs.  Godfrey- 
chooses  to  keep  holy  the  seventh  day,  by  gathering  all  her 
family  around  her,  as  a  hen  does  her  chickens,  I  am  obliged 
to  endure  every  species  of  vexation  and  privation,  because  it 
is  Sunday !  Sunday  in  England  is  the  head  and  front  of  all 
melancholy  and  misery, — especially  in  London  !  The  drear- 
iness of  one's  own  dull,  silent  house,  is  insupportable,  and 
even  the  parks  are  detestable  on  that  day  ;  at  least  they  were 
so  to  me  this  morning.  The  heat,  the  dust,  the  burning  sun, 
and  the  chilly  east  wrnd, — the  vulgar  bustle  of  the  cocknies, 
and  the  overbearing  insolence  of  the  fashionable  aristocracy 
in  Kensington,  were  quite  insufferable!  And  then,  the 
Bloomsbury  and  the  Bedford  Square  gentry  are  certainly  the 
most  absurd  of  all ;  with  their  competition  of  new  carriages 
and  flaming  liveries  ;  and  their  lilac  bonnets  and  laburnum 


108  TEMPER. 

flowers  !  The  middle  classes  in  England  are  odious  :  tliey 
are  neither  fish  nor  flesh.  Their  place  is  not  sufficiently  de- 
fined, like  that  of  the  Bonne  Bourgeoisie  of  Paris.  I  would 
rather  be  a  pastrycook  in  the  Palais  Royal,  or  a  shoemaker 
in  Holborn,  than  a  man  of  good  fortune  in  Bloomsbury. 
Were  I  not  saddled  with  a  wife,  encumbered  with  children, 
tied  to  the  stake  of  my  property  in  Bloomsbury,  and  pegged 
down,  like  Gulliver,  among  the  Liliputians,  by  the  interfer- 
ence of  my  Avife's  famil}^,  and  her  mother's  domineering 
spirit,  I  would  sell  off  every  thing,  and  settle  on  the  continent 
this  very  summer. 

[Enter  William,  the  Butler,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

WILLIAM. 

The  hot  water  is  ready,  sir,  in  your  dressing-room.  [A 
pause.]  If  you  do  not  particularly  want  me,  sir,  my  mistress 
has  given  me  leave  to  go  as  far  as  Paddington,  to  see  my 
mother ;  as  it  is  Sunday,  and  the  family  dines  over  the  way, 
at  Mrs.  Godfrey's. 

]VIR.  WENTWORTH. 

Go  !  go  !  go  !  go  !  to  the wherever  your  mistress 

chooses. 

[WiUiam  gives  a  significant  shake  of  the  head  :  and  avails  hinaself  of 
the  permission,  with  singular  promptitude.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
I  cannot  get  over  the  disgust  of  the  Park  to-day.  Every 
body,  I  wanted  to  address,  seemed  disinclined  to  acknowl- 
edge me  ;  and  every  body  I  wished  to  cut,  fastened  on  me 
like  so  many  barnacles  !  I  never  shall  forget  Sir  William 
Fitzharding's  look,  when  that  good-natured,  but  obtrusive 
Dixon,  drove  up  in  his  rum  touch  of  a  tilbury  with  his  usual 
"  How  goes  it,  my  boy?"  and  proposed  my  "  steaming  it"  to 
Richmond,  to  Bob  Wisdom's  dinner-party  of  Dick,  Tom,  and 
Harry. 

[Enter  Mrs.  Wilson  in  a  smart  walking-dress,  looking  for  something.] 

MRS.  WILSON. 
Keys  are  the  most  tiresome  things  l—[Ru?nages  about,  till 
she  sees  Mr.  Wejitworth.]  Oh  dear,  sir,  I  beg  pardon  ;  I 
thought  you  were  in  your  dressing-room.  It  is  not  far  from 
six.  Mr.  Godfrey  dines  punctually  at  six,  for  the  sake  of  the 
children,  sir,  on  a  Sunday. 


TEMPER. 


109 


»  MR.  WENTWORTH,  (angrily.) 

Have  you  found  what  you  want  ? 

MRS.  WILSON. 
Yes,  sure,  sir — my  mistress's  small  keys  ! 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
Then  you  may  leave  the  room.     [She  looks  at  him^  shakes 
her  head,   and  goes  out.l     Vulgar,  pert  creature  !  she  rules 
my  wife  with  a  rod  of  iron.     I  hate  her  ! 

[He  rises,  takes  a  book,  and  throws  himself  again  on  the  ottoman. 
Re-enter  Mrs.  Wilson.] 

MRS.  WILSON. 
Please,  sir,  my  mistress  desires  me  to  say  she  is  dressed. 
[He  takes  no  notice.^     Mr.  Godfrey,  you  know,  sir,  always 

dines  at  six,  on  Sundays,  because  it  is  a  family  dinner 

[Apart,  perceiving  the  gradual  knitting  of  his  brow,  and 
deepening  of  his  colour.]  Oh!  the  storm  is  brewing.  Well, 
I'll  be  off  before. my  leave  of  absence  is  recalled.  But  first, 
to  tell  Mrs.  Godfrey,  according  to  promise.  ^She  turns  away 
and  leaves  the  room,] 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (throwing  by  his  book,  and  pressing  his  temples.) 
I  have  got  such  a  confounded  headach  !  I  am  a  pretty 
subject  for  a  family  dinner  ;  to  listen  to  the  wise  saws  of  my 
clever  mother-in-law  ;  play  small  plays  with  the  young 
ladies,  and  their  cousins  Irom  Friday  Street ;  and  look 
amazed  for  the  hundred  and  fortieth  time,  when  the  plum- 
cake  comes  on  at  tea,  to  give  the  children  a  surfeit !  I  won't 
go,  that's  flat.  [Walks  to  the  window.]  What  a  lovely 
evening  !  I  wish  I  had  accepted  Dixon's  invitation  ;  we 
should  have  had  some  fun  at  Wisdom's.  Talking  over  our  gay 
Cambridge  days  is  quite  as  good  as  listening  to  Mr.  God- 
frey's journey  to  Scotland  for  the  hundredth  time — as  tedious 
as  Bozz}^,  but  not  as  entertaining. 

[Enter  Mrs.  Wentworth,  elegantly  dressed  in  demi-toilette,  drawing 
on  her  gloves,  and  with  her  shawl  on  her  arm.] 

MRS.  WENTWORTH,  (gaily.) 
Not  dressed  yet  love  !     I  sent  Wilson  to  tell  you  the  hour. 
[She  looks  in  the  glass,  and  settles  a  flower  in  her  cap.]  You 
know  my  father  is  so  particular  about  dining,  to  a  moment, 

23* 


110  TEMPER. 

at  six,  on  Sunday  ;  on  account  of  the  young  folks.  We  are 
to  have  such  a  congress  to-day  !  Don't  you  hear  me, 
Frederick  ? 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
I  must  be  very  deaf  else.     I  think.  Emily,  your  voice  gets 
shriller  every  day.     'Tis  quite  unpleasant. 

MRS.  WENTWORTH,  (turning  round,  and  looking  at  him.) 
Why  what  is  the   matter?     Has  any  thing  happened, 
dearest  ? 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (bitterly.) 
Happened  ? — No,  no  such  luck.     This  Sunday  is  a  fac- 
iimile  of  all  the  blessed  Sundays  we  have  passed  since  our 
marriage — eight  years  yesterday.     Heigh  ho  ! 

MRS.  WENTWORTH,  (with  anxious  surprise.) 
You  are  not  well,  surely  ?     What  is  the  matter  ? 

MR.  WENTWOTH. 
Never  better  in  all  my  life ;  so  you  are  quite  out  there  ! 

MRS.  WENTWORTH. 
My  cousin  William  said  he  saw  you  riding  to-day  in  the 
Park,  with  your  new  friend,  Sir  William ;  and  that  you 
were  in  high  spirits. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 

Yes  !  your  "  cousin  William"  was  enchanted  to  see  me; 
I  thought  he  would  have  hugged  me.  Pray  tell  him  not  to 
ask  me  "  how  my  mother  is"  always. 

MRS.  WENTWORTH,  (laughing.) 
Oh  !  men  of  fashion  have  no  mothers. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
At  least,  they  don't  issue  bills  of  health  for  every  member 
of  their  family,  to  all  they  meet,  on  the  highways  and  by- 
ways. 

MRS.  WENTWORTH,  (smiling.) 
Come  now ;  you  are  out  of  humour.     You  frequently  are 


TEMPER.  Ill 

of  late  ;  particularly  before  dinner,  I.  observe.     You  will  be 
all  the  better  for  your  soup  and  sherry. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 

Nonsense  !  that's  one  of  your  mother's  cut  and  dry 
phrases.  [She  smiles,  and  caresses  him.li  Pray  don't  tease 
me.     [Hejlings  off  her  arm.] 

MRS.  WENTWORTH,  (impatiently.) 

Tease  you !  Why  'tis  six  o'clock  !  Pray  go  and  dress. 
You  know  my  father's  hour  for  a  family  dinner. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
Oh  !  for  heaven's  sake,  spare  me  the  eternal  ding  dong  of 
the  family  dinner,  and  your  father's  hour.     Cannot  you  go 
without  me  ? 

MRS.  WENTWORTH. 

Well,  but  my  sweet  love,  if  you  are  to  go,  there's  no  time 
to  lose.  I  have  given  the  coachman  leave  to  go  and  see  his 
family,  and  mean  to  walk  to  my  father's. 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (petulantly.) 
Well, — walk — who  the  deuce  prevents  you  ? 

MRS.  WENTWORTH. 
Without   you  !      This    is    really  too  unkind   Frederick. 
You   outrage    the    indulgence,   with   which    I    bear   your 
caprices  and  humours. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 

Not  go  without  me  ?  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  now  that  is  too  child- 
ish !  You  can  potter  up  and  down  Oxford  Street,  shopping, 
with  your  footman,  all  day ;  and  yet  you  cannot  walk  with 
your  footman  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  Square,  without  me ! 
[Ri7igs  the  bell  violently — rings  again  and  breaks  the  bell.] 
Is  there  no  one  at  home  ?  [TVirows  himself  on  the  sofa.]  Is 
every  body  gone  out,  because  it  is  Sunday  ? 

MRS.  WENTWORTH. 
John  has  walked  to  my  father's  with  the  children,  and 
William  is  gone  out ;  but  Denis  is  at  home. 


112  TEMPER. 

MR.  WENT  WORTH. 
Denis  !    Is  it  possible  you  have  committed  your  house  to 
the  care  of  that  Irish  ass  ?  that  idiot  ? 

MR>S.  WENTWORTH. 
He  is  honest,  and  stay-at-home,  and  trust-worthy ;  but 
never  mind  him :  surely  you  mean  to  go  with  me,  dear 
Frederick — go  as  you  are :  we  are  to  be  quite  a  family 
party.  [Enter  Denis  half  asleep.']  Oh,  Den'is,  bring  a  brush 
and  some  warm  water,  and  a  towel,  or 

MR.  W^ENTWORTH,  (rising  in  a  rage,  shaking  his  clenched  hand  tt 

Denis.) 

If  you  show  your  d d  Irish  face  here  again  to-day, 

I'll  turn  you  out  of  the  house  that  instant. 

DENIS,  (not  quite  awake,  but  quite  amazed.) 
Lord  Jasus  preserve  us  !     [i/e  runs  out  and  is  heard  ium* 
bling  down  stairs.'\ 

MRS.  WENTWORTH,  (stifling  her  resentment.) 
Are  you  not  ashamed  to  expose  yourself  thus,  to  your  ser- 
vant ?    Your  temper  is  becoming  quite  insupportable.    What 
am  I  to  say  to  my  father  ? 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 

What  you  please. 

MRS.  WENTWORTH. 
The  fact  is,  then,  that  you  are  unwell,  and  unfit  for  society. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 

If  you  say  that,  you  will  tell  a what  is  not  true  :  I 

never  was  better  in  my  life. 

MRS.  WENTWORTH,  (impatiently.) 
Mr.    Wentworth,   this    is    ungentlemanlike,    unmanly — I 
really  cannot  go  on,  enduring  for  ever — [She  bursts  into  tears'] 
not  to  be  borne  ! 

MR.  WENTWORTFI,  (relenting,  but  peevishly.) 
Then  why  are  you  so  devilish  provoking  1    . 


TEMPER.  113 

MRS.  WENTWOUTH. 
What  have  I  said  ?     What  have  I  done  ?     You  know  my 
poor  dear  father   has  no  pleasure,  since  my  brother's  death, 
but  in  getting  us  all  about  him  on  a  Sunday. 

[Mr.  Wenlvvorth  takes  up  his  book  and  reads.] 

MRS.  WENTWORTH,  (after  pausing  and  looking  at  him.) 
You  ivonH  come  ? 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
How  can  I  ?     I'm  not  dressed. 

MRS.  WENTWORTH 
I  will  bring  you  down  your  things,  if  that  is  all.     I  will 
be  your  valet — now  then,  dear.     [She  runs  out.'] 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
What  a  fool  I  was  to  refuse  Dixon  and  Wisdom — I  should 
have  been  spared  all  this  bore.  Oh  !  this  periodical  family 
party  !  To  be  affectionate  once  a  week — what  an  idea  !  And 
after  all,  perhaps,  to  meet  in  cordiality,  and  part  in  a  huff,  if 
the  old  one  happens  to  be  out  of  temper.  Besides,  I  go  for 
nothing.  They  have  so  many  things  to  say  in  common — old 
scenes  and  old  friends  ! — Pshaw  !  I  am  a  mere  make-weight, 
"  my  daughter's  husband,"  as  Mrs.  Godfrey  calls  me.  She 
makes  personal  propcity  of  me.  I  am  not  the  least  consider- 
ed for  myself,  '*  Well  Emily,  don't  be  late  on  Sunday.  Mr. 
Wentworth  comes  of  course.''^  I  am  asked,  "  of  course ;" 
or  rather,  I  am  not  asked  at  all^I  never  was  asked  since  my 
marriage  !  never  formally  invited  !  Everston  quizzed  me 
about  it  the  other  day.  He  calls  me  "  the  family  man," 
"the  mother's  own." 

[Re-Enter  Mrs.  Wentworth.] 

MRS.  WENTWORTH. 
Every  thing  is  ready  in  your  dressing-room  ;  but  I  couldn't 
manage  to  bring  you  the  details,  and  dared  not  call  poor 
Denis  into  the  service. 

MR.  WENTWORTH, 

I  really  will  not  go,  Emily. 


114  TEMPER. 

MRS.  WENTWORTH. 
For  heaven's  sake  why,  F  'ederick  ? 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
Because  I  am  not  invited. 

MRS.  WENTWORTH,  (laughs.) 
Not  invited  !     This  is  too  pleasant.     Not  invited  to  my 
father's,  where  you  have  dinned  every  Sunday  for  the  last 
eight  years,  except  when  we  were  abroad,  or  in  the  country. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 

That  is  the  very  reason,  why  I  will  not  dine  there  again, 
on  a  Sunday.  I  am  perhaps  the  only  married  man  in  Lon- 
don of  a  certain  rank,  (or  fortune  at  all  events,)  who  is  week- 
ly served  up,  with  the  roast  beef  and  plum-pudding,  at  the 
family  Sunday  dinner.  Besides,  if  you  will  know  the  truth, 
Mrs.  Godfrey  is  becoming  quite  insupportable  ! 

MRS.  WENTWORTH. 
Mamma  ?  to  you,    Frederick  ?     You,  who  were   always 
so  amused,  so  delighted  with  her?  who  said  the  other  day, 
that  she  is  handsomer  than  her  daughters,  and  wittier  than 
her  sons  ! 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (sneering.) 
A  rather  equivocal  compliment.  But  if  she  were  a  tenth 
muse,  and  a  fourth  grace,  I  would  not — will  not — longer  stand 
her  domineering  manner,  her  overpowering  fluency.  I  see 
her  object  is  to  make  the  same  fool  of  me,  that  she  has  done 
of  your  eldest  brother,  and  your  weak  submissive  father. 

MRS.  WENTWORTH,  (weeping.) 
This  is  past  all  endurance.  [Apart.]  What  shall  I  do  t 
To  give  way  for  ever  to  this  temper,  is  vreakness,  folly  ;  and 
yet  to  leave  him  thus  !  I  could  bear  it  myself;  but  I  will 
not  insult  my  poor  father  and  mother,  even  for  him  !  [Aloud.] 
As  you  have  wreaked  your  ill-humour  on  me,  I  shall  leave 
you  to  enjoy  the  consciousness  of  having  sent  me,  unoffend- 
ing as  I  am,  miserable  and  wretched,  to  a  circle,  where,  un- 
til I  married  you,  I  always  brought  pleasure  and  happiness, 

[She  draws  on  her  shawl,  wi[)es  aM'ay  her  tears,  and  after  a  moment*g 
hesitation,  departs,  drawing  the  door  after  her  with  some  violence.) 


TBHFBR.  115 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 

What  a  violent  temper  !  just  like  her  mother,  who  with 
all  her  apparent  gaiety,  is  .  .  .  is  .  .  .  what  a  curse  a  vio- 
lent temper  is  !  Well,  I  am  quitte  pour  la  peur.  One  calm, 
quiet  evening  I  shall  have,  at  least ;  that  is  something.  '[Lies 
down  and  reads. '^  But  where  the  devil  shall  I  dine  !  Looks 
at  his  watch.']  Half-past  six.  It  will  be  time  enough  to 
think  of  that,  this  half-hour.  I'd  go  to  the  University  Club  ; 
but  I  hate  going,  even  to  the  club,  undressed :  it  is  so  very 
bourgeois.  Yet,  I  wouldn't  take  the  trouble  of  dressing  now, 
to  dine  with  the  Earl  of  ...  .  The  manner,  by-the-bye, 
in  which  Sir  William  shirked  introducing  me  to-day  to  that 
lord,  was  too  obvious.  It  was  he  himself,  that  proposed  it  at 
dinner,  here,  yesterday.  Oh  !  the  great,  the  great ! — I  hate 
the  world,  'tis  all  false,  hollow.  [Reads  ;  arid  after  a  long 
pause^  rises.]  I'll  have  a  cutlet  here,  and  some  of  the  cold 
turbot  of , yesterday  ;  and  I'll  send  in  for  young  Fitzherbert 
to  come,  and  read  his  eternal  poem  on  "  Time"  to  me,  over 
our  coffee ; — that's  a  famous  idea !  He  has  been  boring 
me  this  age  to  hear  it,  thanks  to  my  own  prize  poem  at 
Cambridge.  This  will  flatter  the  poor  old  judge,  who  thinks 
lis  son  another  Byron — I  owe  them  so  much.  [Goes  to  his 
secretaire  and  writes.]  There,  that's  in  Fitzherbert's  own 
:)lue-stocking  style — "  Dear  Fitz — Alone  and  head-achy — 
tome  and  charm  away  melancholy  and  low  spirits — divine 
rerse,  as  Horace  says — coflee  at  eight."     That  wall  do. 

[While  he  writes  and  reads  this  note,  Denis  O'Dowd  is  heard  singing 
on  the  stairs. J 

I  am  a  rake,  and  a  rambling  boy, 

Aly  lodffing,  it's  in  Auchnacloy  ; 

A  rambling  boy,  dear,  altho'  I  be, 

I'll  forsake  my  home,  love,  and  follow  thee. 

Fal  lal  la,  fal  lal  lal  la. 

[Enter  Denis,  with  the  watering-pot,  and  waters  the  plants  in  the 
verandah  !  Not  seeing  Mr.  Wentworth,  and  supposing  all  the  fam- 
ily out,  he  continues  singing,  outside  the  balcony.] 

I  wish  I  was  a  little  fly, 
On  my  love's  buzzom  I  would  lie  ; 
Then,  all  the  wor-ald  might  plainly  see, 
That  I  loved  a  girl,  and  she  loved  not  me. 

Fal  lal  la,  fal  lal  lal  la. 

Well,  sorrow  more  throublesome  thing  there  is  in  the 


116  TEMPER. 

house,  than  my  mistress's  posies  and  flower-pots ;  for  give 
'em  as  much  to  drink  as  yez  will,  to-day,  like  ould  Terry 
Magill  of  the  upper  lake,  its  dhryer  they'd  be  to-morrow. 

[Sings,  and  lays  down  his  water-pot,  to  tie  up  a  flower.] 

My  fader  being  out  very  late  one  night, 
He  called  sorely  for  his  heart's  delight ; 
He  went  up  stairs,  and  the  door  he  broke, 
And  he  found  her  hang-ging  by  a  rope. 

Fal  lal  la,  fal  ial  lal  la. 

There  then ;  my  mistress  will  be  plazed  intirely,  to  say 
the  scarlet  kidney  banes  tied  so  iligantly.  I'd  do  more  than 
that  for  her  ;  for  she's  mighty  quiet ;  and  she's  that  taking 
way  wid  her.  "  Denis,  (says  she,)  what  would  smell  sweet 
and  look  purty,  says  she,  in  my  balcowny  ?"  *'  Why  then, 
innions,  ma'am,"  says  I ;  and  she  laughing  so  pleasantly,  and 
not  all  as  one  as  the  masthur.  Well,  he's  the  devil,  God 
bless  us ! 

MR.  WENT  WORTH,  (having  sealed  his  note.) 
Denis  ! 
[Denis,  who  is  carrying  offa  flower-pot,  by  mistake  for  the  watering- 
pot,  lets  it  drop  in  consternation.     The  earth  falls  about  the  hand- 
some carpet.     Denis  rushes  out,  and  tumbles  down  stairs.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (with  returning  ill-humour.) 
So  there  are  thirty  pounds'  worth  of  damage  done  !     A 
carpet  only  laid  down  yesterday  !  Emily's  eternal  flower-pots, 

and  her  man  Denis  !     By  all  that's  sacred [Rings 

the  remaining  hell  violently — no  body  answers.  He  resumes 
his  seat,  and  heats  a  tatoo  ivith  his  footl — Denis  !  Denis  ! 
[roaring.'\   Den — n — is  ! 

[Enter  Denis,  walking  in  backwards.] 

DENIS,  (in  a  tremulous  tone,  and  with  his  back  still  turned.) 
Sure,  I'm  here,  plaze  your  honour  ! 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (looking  up.) 
What  do  you  mean  by  that,  you   ridiculous  blockhead? 
Why  don't  you  turn  round  your  stupid  face  ? 

DENIS. 
Sure,  your  honour  swore  sir,  you'd  turn  me  out  of  it,  if 


TEMPER.  117 

ever  I'd  show  my  damned  Irish  face  in  the  dhrawing  room 
agen,  sir. 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (almost  subdued  by  his  obedient  stupidity,  and 
in  a  more  encouraging  tone.) 

Well,  you  may  turn  round  your  stupid  face,  Denis,  for 
once.  Now,  mind  me,  send  the  housemaid  up,  to  sweep 
the  carpet  and  repair  the  mischief  you  have  done. 

DENIS,  (frightened.) 
I  shaul,  sir. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 

Next,  desire  the  cook  to  send  me  up  a  dish  of  the  cold  tur- 
bot,  d  la  mattre  (Thotel. 

DENIS. 
I  shaul,  sir. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 

And,  thirdly,  take  this  note  into  Judge  Fitzherhert's.  It's 
for  young  Mr.  Fitzherbert ;  and  mind — wait  for  an  answer, 

[Denis  takes  the  letter  ;  but  stunned  by  the  multiplicity  of  his  orders, 
remains  open-mouthed.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (kindling.) 
Well,  why  don't  you  go?     Don't  you   understand  me, 
blockhead  ? 

DENIS,  (starting.) 
Is  it  understand  a  blockhead?     I  do  sir. 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (^vvith  a  sudden  burst  of  temper.) 
Well,  then,  what  have  I  desired  you  to  do  ?     What  orders 
have  I  given  you  ? 

DENIS,  (trembling.) 
To  .  . .  to  .  .  .  sweep  up  the  housemaid  .  .  .  send . .  .  Major 
Turbot  from  the  hotel,  to  dine  with  you  ;  and  to  give  young 
Mr.    Fitzherbert   the  Jidge's  letter,  sir,  for  the  cook  next 
door. 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (throws  himself  into  the  chair,  struggling  with 
his  temper,  and  suddenly  affecting  calm.) 

Denis,  I  don't  wish  to  be  violent.     But  listen  to  me ;  for 

23 


118  TEMPER. 

I  am  resolved  you  shall  do  what  I  desire  you,  and  that  there 
shail  be  no  mistake,  no  blunder.  Take — that — note — next 
door — to  Judge  Fitzherbert's  ;  and  wait  an  answer. 

DENIS,  (recovering  himself,  and  quite  aufait.) 
I  shaul,   sir.     Take  that  note  to  the  Jidge's,    and  wait  for 
an  answer. 

MR.  WENT  WORTH. 
Very  well : — and  send — the — cook— to — me. 

DENIS. 
And  send  the  cook  to  me.     I  shaul,  sir.     [Going, — he  re- 
iur7is.]     The  cook's  gone  out,  plaze  your  honour. 

MR.  WENT  WORTH. 

So — the  cook's  out  too  ! — well — Tell  the  kitchen-maid  to 
broil  me  a  mutton  cutlet. 

DENIS,  (in  some  confusion.) 

The  fire's  gone  out  too,  plaze  your  honour  :  but  I'll  tell 

her,  when  she  comes  in,  sir.     And  it's  to  the  Jidge,   next 

door,  I'll  take  this  letter,  and  wait  for  an  answer  ?     I  shaul, 

sir. 

[Goes  out  with  pleasod  alacrity.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (walks  up  and  down  the  room.) 
That  fellow  is  more  knave  than  fool.  I  have  the  worst 
opinion  of  him.  So !  every  one  making  holiday,  but  me. 
The  mistress  of  the  house, — the  children, — the  servants, — 
even  the  very  fire  goes  out,  as  Denis  says.  Impossible  to 
get  so  much  as  a  cutlet  broiled  ;  and  this,  too,  in  my  own 
house  !  I  might  actually  famish  for  want  of  a  morsel  to  eat, 
or  means  to  dress  it.  Well,  I  will  send  that  Irish  Menichino 
to  order  tea  and  cofliee  from  the  next  coffee-house.     I. ...order 

from  a  coffee and  in  my  own  house  too.     [He  stops  at 

the  window.]  How  the  carriages  are  rolling  !  Every  body 
giving  dinners,  or  going  to  them  !  What  cant  about  Sun- 
day !  Every  body  dines  out  on  a  Sunday  (but  me  !)  Rus- 
sell Square  is  a  pays  de  cocagne.  Every  chimney  smokes— 
but  mine.  /  cannot  get  a  cutlet  broiled  !  No  matter.  And 
Emily's  unkindness — her  neglect.  The  indifference  of  every 
human  being  ;  the  abandonment !  But  it  is  well  ;  it  is  of  no 
consequence.  [He  nods  to  a  cab  which  passes  the  window.'\ 
There  he  goes  too,  Harry  Everston,  the  most  enviable  of  all 


TEMPER.  119 

men.  He  has  neither  wife,  children,  nor  servants  ;  and  yet 
every  comfort,  every  luxury  is  his  !  What  a  capital  set-out, 
too — going  to  dine  with  some  of  his  fine  friends,  at  the  west 
end  of  the  town  !  What  a  miserable  thing  it  is  to  be  left 
without  a  profession,  as  I  was !  What  an  advantage  for  a 
man  of  city  connexions  to  get  into  the  Guards  !  Deuce  take 
it,  he  is  turning  back?  What  a  bore !  What  shall  I  do, 
or  say?  This  is  the  finish;  and  no  one  to  open  the  door, 
but  a  greasy  kitchen  wench  !     Am  I  unlucky  ! 

[The  cab  is  heard  rattling  up  to  the  door — Mr.  Everston  enters.] 

MR.  EVERSTON. 
Why,  Fred,  my  boy  !  only  think  of  my  finding  your  door 
open,  and  you  at  home,  too,  on  a  Sunday  !  Before  this,  I 
thought  you  must  have  been  up  to  your  eyes  in  gravy  soup, 
on  t'other  side,  there.  I  am  going  to  do  poojah  to  my  gover- 
nor. Always  go  to  church,  and  visit  the  govenor  on  Sun- 
days. It's  proper,  you  know.  What  are  ynu  going  to  do 
with  yourself?  You  look  as  if  you  wanted  hock  and  soda 
water,  eh  ! 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
As  to  my  open  door,  that's  my  Irish  blockhead's  doing  ; 
who  is  gone  on  a  message,  and  has  left  it  ajar  after  him, 
that  the  house  may  be  robbed ;  and  as  to  myself,  I  have  a 
bad  head-ach  ^  ai.ci  so,  stay  at  home,  to  write  letters,  and 
dine  on  a  grille.     Mrs.  W.  dines  with  her  family. 

MR.  EVERSTON. 
A  grille — nonsense  !  You  shall  dine  with  me,  on  a  tur- 
tle and  saumon  aux  capres,  and  a  delicious  little  party  into 
the  bargain,  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor.  I  would  have  pro- 
posed it  to  you  yesterday,  but  I  took  it  for  granted  you  dined 
— "  at  my  father-in-law's  across  the  Square  ;"  ha  !  ha  !  ha! 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (mortified.) 
Thank  you  very  much.     But  I  really  cannot  go  out  to- 
day. 

MR.  EVERSTON. 

Oh  !  afraid  of  offending  the  old  ones  !  Or  do  you  give  up 
dining  out  on  Sunday,  and  let  your  hair  grow,  to  qualify  for 
the  saints  1     But  never  mind  ;  come,  by  all  means  ;    they'll 


120  TEMPER. 

never  find  you  out,  over  the  Avay.  It's  just  such  a  party,  as 
would  have  made  you  jump,  before  you  married  all  the  God- 
freys? You  know  Hamilton  of  the  Lancers,  and  la  belle 
des  belles,  with  her  pretty  sister,  Mrs.  Mordaunt  ? 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
I  have  seen  them  at  the  opera.     They  are  very  pretty  ; 
but  rather  equivocal,  I  suspect. 

MR.  EVERSTON,  (smiling.) 
Oh  !  not  the  least — equivocal.  But  I  suppose  you  are 
afraid  of  your  wife  hearing  of  your  escapades, — or  are  you 
grown  prudish,  or  pious,  or  what  ?  Do  you  refuse  to  d[ine 
with  a  pretty  woman  because  she  was  o?ice — equivocal? 
This  beats  the  shutting  the  Zoolological  Gardens  hollow  ! 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (affecting  to  brighten  up.) 
Nonsense !     If  you  will  wait  till  I  dress,  I  am  your  man. 

MR.  EVERSTON. 
I'll  give  you  half  an  hour,  while  I  step  off  to  the  governor. 
But  what  o'clock  is  it  now  ?     Seven  !     Egad  !  it   is  too  late 
for  that.     My  people  have  got  as   far  as  gooseberry  pie  by 
this.     Well,  I'll  wait :  so  come,  my  boy,  don't  lose  time. 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (much  provoked.) 
And  yet,  I   cannot !     I  had  quite    forgotten — 'tis  impos- 
sible— I  have  this  moment  sent  to  young  Fitzherbert  to  take 
coffee  ;  and   read  his   cursed   poem  on  Time  to  me.     You 
know  how  I  stand  with  the  excellent  Fitzherberts. 

MR.  EVERSTON. 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !     Why,  this  is  worse  than  going  to  evening 
prayers  !     Send  him  an  apology,  and  say  you  have  no  time 
to  read  his  poem. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
Quite  out  of  the  question.     The  Judge  was  my  guardian  ; 
and  I  have  put  off  his  boy  so  often.     Besides,  the  proposition 
is  my  own — and  .... 

MR.  EVERSTON,  (interrupting  him  conceitedly.) 
Oh !  no  explanations,  pray.     Yes,  or  no.     One — two — 
three — 


TEMPER.  121 

MR.   WENTWORTH,  (with  great  mortification.) 
Well,  then — no  ! 

MR.  EVERSTON. 

Then,  D.  I.  O.     Goodbye! 

[Mr.  Everston  hurries  out  of  the  room,  and  is  heard  singing,  as  he 
bounds  down  the  stairs.     The  door  closes,  and  his  cab  rattles  off.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (looking  after  him  from  the  window.) 
There  he  goes  ! — the  happiest  of  the  happy.  Light  of 
head,  heart,  and  purse  ;  while  I,  with  five  thousand  a-year, 
better  looking,  better  connected,  more  respectable,  and  per- 
haps more  respected,  am  the  most  miserable  of  human  beings. 
\_Walks  up  and  down  with  a  heavy  measured  tread.]  "  Re- 
mote,— unfriended, — melancholy, — slow  !'*  Without  a  hu- 
man being  to  speak  to,— without  a  morsel  to  eat ! — tempted, 
too,  with  two  delightful  parties — with  youth,  beauty,  fashion, 
gaiety  ! — and  for  whom  ? — for  what  ?  Oh  !  Emily  !  Emily  ! 
I  have  not  deserved  this.  [Presses  his  fingers  on  his  eyes. 
Takes  up  his  book  and  re  ads  ^  or  tries  to  read  for  half  an 
hour.']  So,  no  answer  yet  from  Fitzherbert !  and  that  block- 
head not  returned !     Half  an  hour  going  to  the  next  door  ! 

[Another  pause.  He  rings  his  bell  repeatedly.  It  is  not  answered  ; 
but  a  loud  ringing  is  heard  at  the  street-door.  He  looks  out  at  the 
balcony.] 

DENIS,  (from  below.) 
Plaze  your  honour,  it's  me  !  and  the  house  is  out,  sir. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
Then  there  is  actually  no  one  at  home  !  Emily  has  given 
all  the  servants  leave  to  go  out ;  or  they  have  taken  it. 

[After  some  hesitation,  and  doubtful  whether  he  will  let  Denis  in  at 
all,  he  descends  to  open  the  door,  and  returns,  followed  by  Denis.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (seating  himself.) 
So,  there  was  actually  no  one  left  in  the  house,  but  you  ? 

DENIS. 
Sorrow  Christian,  sir  !  only  the  little  kitchin-maid,  that's 
just  slipped  out  to  the  dairy,  sir,  for  a  little  crame  for  her 
tay,  and  will  be  back  in  a  jiffey.    That's  Jane,  sir,  the  cratur ! 

23* 


123  TEMPER. 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (violently.) 
That's  a  lie  !   and  you  know  it's  a  lie ;    but  no  matter. 
What  answer  from  Mr.  Fitzherbert  ?    [Denis  presents  him  a 
letter,  which  he  opens.']    Why,  this  is  my  own  note  ! 

DENIS. 
It  is,  plaze  your  honour  ! 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (in  a  rage.) 
And  why  is  it  ? 

DENIS,  (frightened  and  confused.) 
Sorrow  know,  I  know,  sir  ! 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (with  increasing  violence.) 
Why,  you   infernal,  stupid — Irish — bull  ! — Where  have 
you  been  all  this  while  ? 

DENIS,  (agitated.) 
In  the  Jidge's  airy,  sir,  with  little  Kitty,  the  cook. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 

Then  you  did  not  deliver  my  letter  ? 

DENIS. 
1  did  nat,  sir. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
And  why,  pray  ? 

DENIS. 
Becaise,  sir,  he  wasn't  in  it.     Kitty  said,  sir,  that  the 
family  is  gone   on  a  party  of  pleasure,  sailing  down  the 
Thames  in  a  boat ;  and  it's  what  Kitty's  brother  says,  who 
has  just  come  from  Killarney — as  how  .... 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 

D n  Kitty  ! — D n  her  brother  !     So  I've  given  up 

Everston's  dinner,  and  Fitzherbert  not  coming  after  all  ! 
Gone  boating ! — gone  on  a  party !  But  as  for  you,  Mr  Denis, 
— for  your  stupidity — for  your  staying  out  an  hour,  when 
you  knew  I  was  alone,  without  any  one  to  open  the  door  for 


TEMPER.  123 

you, — or  worse,  leaving  it  open,  for  your  gang  to  enter  and 
rob  the  house — you  shall  not  sleep  another  night  under  my 
roof,  you  shall  not  stay  an  hour — a  moment ! — you  shall 
turn  out  this  instant  ! 

DENIS,  (rallying,  his  honour  being  touched.) 
For  what,  sir,  should  I  be  turned  out  of  the  place,  this 
blessed  Sunday  night,  'bove  al]  the  days  of  the  year,  sir  1 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 

For  being  an  incorrigible  blockhead,  a  mitcher,  and  an 
idiot ;  whose  brogue,  bulls,  blunders,  and  negligence,  no 
temper  can  stand.  So  go,  sir,  and  finish  your  evening  with 
*'  Kitty  in  the  airy  ;"  but  first  take  off  my  livery,  and  come 
to-morrow  for  your  wages.  I  cannot  afiord  to  pay  you  se- 
venteen guineas  a-year,  for  making  my  wife  and  family  laugh 
at  your  absurdities, — the  only  thing  that  you  are  fit  for. 

DENIS,  (cooly  and  sulkily.) 
Troth,  axing  your  honour's  pardon,  sorrow  better  money, 
then,  ever  you   paid  :  for  in  regard  of  making  the  family 
laugh,  I'd  be  worth  my  weight  in  gold,  if . . . . 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (vehemently.) 
Leave  the  room,  you  insolent  scoundrel ;  or  I'll  send  for  a 
constable  to  take  you  to  the  watch-house. 

DENIS,  (his  Irish  blood  rising  at  the  indignity.) 
Och  !  no ; — plaze  your  honour,  you  will  not.     For  what 
would  you  be  afther  taking  myself  to  the  watch-house  ? 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (piqued  by  Denis's  coolness,  and  in  a  great  rage.) 
Do  you  dare  to  stand  arguing  with  me,  you  Irish  ruffian  ? 

[Pushes  him  out  of  the  door,  Denis,  as  usual,  tumbles  down  stairs. 
Mr.  Wentworth  slams  the  door,  and  continues  to  pace  up  and  down 
in  considerable  emotion.  The  shadows  of  evening  gradually  fall; 
and  a  profound  silence  reigns,  both  in  the  house  and  the  square. 
He  bursts  out  into  a  loud  soliloquy.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
Yes,    I  have  now  made  up  my  mind  !     I  will  not   live 
another  day  with  Emily  !     Careless  of  the  misery  she  has 
occasioned,  she  is   enjoying   herself,  in  the   midst  of  her 


124  TEMPER. 

happy,  joyous  family,  the  soul  and  spirit  of  her  circle.  She 
has  dined  ; — her  children  are  playing  at  her  feet ; — pa- 
rents, relations,  friends,  serrants,  all  devoted  to  her  plea- 
sure  and   amusement : while  I ! on    this   evening,    so 

especially  consecrated  to  family  enjoyment  and  domestic 
felicity ....  Gracious  heavens !  what  and  where  am  I  ? 
Alone,  on  my  desolate  hearth,  abandoned  by  all — by  wife, 
children,  friends,  servants  ;  left  in  sadness  and  in  darkness  ; 
in  the  power,  too,  of  a  blood-thirsty  villain,  to  whom  murder 
is,  doubtless,  as  familiar  as  to  the  rest  of  his  savage  nation. 
The  papers  are  full  of  nothing  but  Irish  atrocities.  [He 
passes  into  the  inner  room,  brings  out  a  small  writing-desk, 
unlocks  it,  opens  a  secret  drawer,  and  takes  out  a  pocket-pis- 
tol ; — examines  it,  and  lays  it  on  the  table.]  And  am  I  re- 
duced to  this  ?  I  will  leave  this  country  forever,  to-morow — 
leave  this  house,  to-night.  Emily  and  her  family  shall  feel 
at  last.  I  will  scratch  out  a  codicil,  write  a  few  lines,  and 
then .  .  .  .[He  lights  the  lamp  with  a  briquet,  seats  himself  at 
his  desk,  a?id  writes  with  vehemence  and  rapidity.  The  pen- 
dule  strikes  nine,  and  plays  slowly,  "  Home,  sweet  home !" 
He  sighs,  pauses,  and  again  lorites.  A  slight  rustling  is 
heard  on  the  landing-place — the  lock  of  the  door  is  gently 
turned.  He  starts  up,  listens,  but  the  door  is  not  opened; 
and  all  again  is  silent  :  he  sits  down  again.]  What  was 
that  ?  Could  that  villain  ? — It  is,  however,  but  man  to  man. 
— But  at  this  moment  there  may  be  a  oranof  of  villains  under 
my  roof. 

[He  lays  his  pistol  at  his  right  hand,  and  after  a  pause,  continues  to 
write.  Some  time  after,  a  noise  is  again  heard  on  the  stairs,  as  if 
some  one  was  steahng  up.  He  rises,  fixes  his  eye  on  the  door,  and 
takes  his  pistol.  The  door  opens  slowly.  An  apparently  large 
body,  covered  with  white  drapery,  so  as  to  conceal  the  face  and 
figure,  appears  at  the  half-open  door.  Mr.  Wentworth  raises  his 
pistol ;  which  accidentally  brushing  against  his  open  coat,  goes  off 
The  intruder  fulls,  with  a  crash  and  a  loud  groan.  Mr.  Went- 
worth stands  unnerved,  speechles.?,  and  petrified.  Denis  rises,  in 
part,  from  under  the  fragments,  of  plates,  covers,  glasses,  &c.  &c. 
which  lie  scattered  on  the  floor.] 

DENIS. 

Och,  murther,  murther  !     I'm  kilt  intirely. 

[Mr.  Wentworth  flings  away  the  pistol,  rushes  to  the  door,  and 
throws  himself  beside  the  victim  of  his  rash  movement,  whose  face 
is  seemingly  bathed  in  blood.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (trembling  violently.) 
Denis  !  my  poor  Denis  !     If  you  can  speak,  speak  to  me  ! 


TEMPER.  125 

look  at  me  !  If  you  would  not  drive  me  mad — if  you  would 
not  drive  me  to  suicide,  say  you  are  not  hurt — not  wounded — 
not  mortally  wounded  at  least.  Here — lean  on  my  shoulder. 
Thank  God  !  thank  God !  you  live,  you 

DENIS,  (sitting  bolt  upright,  and  wiping  his  face  with  the  table-cloth.) 
Och  !  ochone  !     The  murthur  of  the  world  ! 

MR.  WENTWORTH, 

Whence  comes  this  torrrent  of  blood  ? 

DENIS. 
Why  then,  sorrow  know,  I  know,  sir ;  if  it  isn't  from  the 
little  cruiskeen  of  iligant  ould  currant  whiskey,  which  is 
broken  to  smithereens.  I  was  making-  bould  to  trate  your 
honour  with  it ;  in  regard  of  the  butler  not  leaving  out  a  sup 
of  wine  afther  him,  (nor  never  does.) 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (with  great  feeling.) 
Thank  God  !     I  am  not  a  murderer  !     I  am  not  the  miser- 
able and  wicked  wretch  I  might  have  been !     [He  rises,  covers 
his  face  unth  his  hands ;   and  then  turns,  after  some  time,  to 
Denis.l     But,  Denisj  are  you  hurt !  speak,  dear  Denis! 

DENIS,  (rises,  picks  up  the  broken  things,  and  replaces  bread,  potatoes, 
meat,  &c.  &c.) 

Why  then,  sorrow  much,  your  honour,  only  in  regard  of 
the  little  cruiskeen  of  currant  whiskey,  sir  :  and  sure,  your 
honour,  it  was  my  mother  sent  it  me,  all  the  way  from  Killar- 
ney,  by  Tim  Macgillicuddy,  and  came  to  see  his  wife  Kitty, 
at  the  jidge's,  sir.  And  it  was  that,  plaze  your  honour,  kept 
me  waiting  in  the  airy,  for  the  answer  to  the  letter. 

[Mr.  Wentworth  assists  in  picking  up  the  contents  of  the  tray,  with 
great  humility  ;  but,  overcome  by  exhaustion  and  by  emotion,  he 
totters  to  the  ottoman,  and  falls  back  on  a  pile  of  cushions.  Denis 
runs  out,  and  returns  with  a  glass  of  water,  which  he  mixes  with  a 
little  whiskey,  remaining  at  the  bottom  of  his  broken  bottle,  and 
lakes  to  his  master.] 

DENIS. 

Just  taste  it,  your  honour  ;  sorrow  harm  it  will  do  you,  but 

all  the  good  in  life.     [Mr.  Wentworth  sips  from  the  glass.'] 

Sure,  plaze  your  honour,  it's  what  it's  wake  at  the  heart  you 

was,  wid  the  hunger.     Oh  !  not  a  thing  else.     And  sure  it's 


126 


TEMPER. 


little  Jenny,  the  kitchen-maid,  and  I  got  the  thray  between 
us  ;  and  I  believe,  this  blessed  moment,  it  was  the  fine,  long, 
damask,  dinner  table-cloth,  that  thripped  me  up,  and  not  at 
all  at  all  the  pistol-ball  whizzing  by,  like  shot.  [Mr.  went- 
worth  shudders.)  Och  !  Mush  !  but  the  cruiskeen's  smashed 
to  smithereens,  and  only  a  dhrop  at  the  bottom  left.  But  sure, 
don't  fret,  your  honour!  Isn't  it  well  it's  no  worse? — aye, 
in  troth,  not  all  as  one,  as  young  Mr.  Rooney  of  Kilmanny. 

[Mr  Wentworth  remains  with  his  fare  buried  in  his  handkerchief. 
Denis  takes  his  station  behind  his  master,  with  an  air  of  affection- 
ate anxiety,  but  evidently  presuming  on  his  new  position.] 

DENIS. 

Well,  plaze  your  honour,  sir,  sure  it's  all  over  and  sor- 
row harm  done  ;  and  thai's  just  the  way  the  gun  went  off 
wid  young  Mr.  Cornelius  Rooney,  I  was  telling  you  ov  ; 
and  he  all  as  one  as  playing  with  it,  and  lodges  it  in  the  heart 
of  his  elder  brother,  the  captain,  who  had  just  come  home, 
in  regard  of  the  pace ;  and  a  brave  heart  it  was. 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (sti  1  horror-stricken.) 

Give  me  a  glass  of  water,  Denis. 

[Denis  flutters  about,  in  a  fright ;  gets  a  glass  of  water,  and  presents 
it.  Mr.  Wentworth  puts  it  to  his  hps  ;  his  teeth  chatter  against  the 
vessel.] 

DENIS,  (in  great  agitation.) 
Och  !  musha,  musha,  what's  this  for  ;  will  I  qualify  it, 
plaze  your  honour,  with  a  dhrop  of  the  sp^urrets  ?  Och  ! 
musha,  there's  not  a  taste  left.  Well,  well,  sure  I  said  to 
Jinny,  sorrow  thing,  says  I,  ails  the  masther,  only  just  your 
honour  being  so  long  without  the  ating  and  the  dhrinking ; 
and  your  heart  sick,  I'll  ingage.  Ochone  !  it  was  often  the 
way  whh  myself;  and  so,  plaze  your  honour,  says  I,  to 
Jane,  the  little  kitchen-maid,  says  I,  and  we  all  alone  by 
ourselves,  says  I,  there's  the  masther  above,  in  the  biggest 
of  passions,  ever  I  seed  him  since  I  came  to  the  place,  in 
regard  of  the  hunger  ;  and  what  is  it,  says  I,  that  makes  the 
wild  bastes  roar  ?  only  the  hunger,  says  I.  And  thrue  for 
you,  Mr.  O'Dowd,  says  she,  (for  she's  a  mighty  'cute  cratur, 
plaze  your  honour,  when  the  cook's  not  in  it ;)  and  what  is 
it  makes  all  the  murthur  in  Ireland  ?  says  I,  only  the  hunger. 
Sorrow  'ruction  would  ever  be  in  the  province  of  Munster, 
says  I,  only  for  the  hunger.     For  hunger  will  cut  through 


TEMPER. 


127 


stone  walls,  though  the  gallows  stood  in  the  gate,  says  I. 
Lord  save  us  !  says  she.  And  every  poor  Irishman,  says  I, 
Jane,  honey,  (in  regard  of  being  her  fellow-servant,  arid 
having  more  to  do  with  Jane  than  any  man  in  the  place,  in 
respect  of  the  plates  and  dishes,)  Jane,  honey,  says  I,  if 
ever  poor  ould  Ireland  had  plinty  of  potatoes  in  the  pot,  and 
a  dhrop  of  the  comforter  in  the  cruiskeen,  just  to  keep  the 
could  from  the  heart,  says  I,  it's  little  yez  would  hear  of  the 
murthering,  and  the  burning.  And  though  the  masther 
kicked  me  down  stairs,  says  I,  afther  frightening  the  life  out 
of  me,  and  sending  me  to  the  watch-house,  I'll  ingage,says 
I,  if  he'd  take  his  dinner,  instead  of  writing  thim  letters, 
himself  would  be  sorry,  and  make  it  up  with  me,  one  way 
or  other.  And  so,  plaze  your  honour,  as  the  cook  had  the 
kay  of  the  larther,  and  the  butler  always  takes  the  panthry 
along  with  him,  Jenny  and  myself  bethought  of  us  the  rash- 
ers and  eggs,  and  the  pickled  cuckumbers,  and  the  currant 
whiskey,  and  wished  it  was  wine,  for  your  honour's  sake. 
So,  afther  gostering  a  bit  about  the  lobbies,  just  to  see  if 
your  honour  was  getting  quiet  a  taste,  I  ran  down  for  the 
thray,  and  was  bringing  it  in,  when,  Christ  save  us  !  what 
should  I  feel  fire  down  on  me,  but  the  bullet,  and  I  all  as 
one  as  a  dead  man!  and  the  murther  of  the  plates  and  the 
daycanthurs,  and  the  putty  soapay.  Och !  musha,  the 
sight  left  my  eyes  :  and  thought  I  saw  Captain  Rooney 
standing  all  over  blood  afore  me,  and  put  up  my  hand  and 
thought  it  was  my  brains,  but  it  was  only  the  currant  whis- 
key. 

MR.  WENT  WORTH,  (who  has  remained  in  a  deep  reverie  during  this 

tirade,  awaking  to  the  sense  of  externals,  and  hearing  only  the  few 

last  words.) 

For  God's  sake,  Denis,  say  no  more  about  it.    The  pistoPs 

going  off  was  an  accident,  I  assure  you,  upon  my  honour  it 

was.      Here,  send  this  to  your  mother,  in  return  for  her 

present  to  you  of  the  whisky.     [Gives  him  a  purse."]     And 

now,  take  away  all  those  things,  and  bring  me  a  chamber 

candle.  [Sighs.]  I'll  go  to  bed,  Denis. 

DENIS  (stands  a  moment  looking  at  the  purse,  and  then  at  Mr.  Went- 
worth,  till  the  tears  gush  into  his  eyes.) 

Och  !  its  too  much  intirely,  plaze  your  honour.  See  here, 
sir,  if  your  honour  would  divide  it  into  two  halves,  and  give 
uz  the  smallest  half,  it  would  be  too  much  still ;  and  the  poor 


128  TEMPER. 

ould  woman,  down  in  the  bog,  sir,  and  it's  my  little  earnings 
keeps  the  life  in  her  ....  and  a  purse,  sir  ...  . 

[Bursts  into  a  passion  of  tears,  and  drops  on  his  knees.  A  loud 
•knocking  at  the  door.     Denis  starts  up,  and  wipes  his  eyes.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH,   [in  great  agitation,  and  putting  the  pistol  into 
his  bosom. J 

I  am  not  at  home,  not  to  any  human  being ;  and,  Denis, 
find  me  the  pistol-ball. 

[Denis  picks  it  up:  Mr.  Wentvvorth  puts  it  in  his  pocket.  A  second 
knock,  after  which,  Mrs.  Godfrey  is  heard  speaking  on  the  stairs.J 

MRS.  GODFREY. 

There,  that  will  do,  Jane,  thank  you.  I  can  see  my  way 
perfectly.  Is  there  no  one  at  home  but  you  ?  Where  is 
Denis  ?  [At  the  threshold  of  the  door.]  Why  what  the  deuce 
is  all  this  ?     What  a  mess  !  what  a  smash  ! 

[Mrs.  Godfrey  enters  with  a  quick,  light  step.  Mr.  Wentworth  is 
seated  on  the  sofa,  with  a  book  in  his  hand,  apparently  reading, 
but  flushed  and  agitated.  Denis  is  drawn  up,  in  an  attitude  of 
surprise  and  confusion,  v\ith  his  mouth  open,  his  head  erect.  He 
hides  the  broken  cruiskeen  under  the  skirts  of  his  coat.] 

MRS.  GODFREY,  (in  a  clear,  rapid,  and  emphatic  tone.) 

My  dear  Wentworth,  what  is  the  matter?  I  have  ran  from 
over  the  way,  between  coffee  and  tea,  unknow^n  to  all,  but 
poor  Emily,  who  is  miserable.  Her  excuse  of  your  bilious 
headach  did  not  satisfy  7}ie.  Something  must  have  happened 
to  cause  this  unusual  want  of  kindness  and  respect  to  us,  to 
whom  you  are  so  rarely  wanting  in  either.  [Pauses,  looks 
earnestly  at  him.]  How  ill  you  look  !  Perhaps  ! — Good 
God  I — but  still  it  must  be  met  w^th  firmness — an  affair  of 
honour,  I  suppose. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
No,  I  assure  you,  madam — nothing  whatever. 

MRS.  GODFREY,  (firmly.) 
Frederick,  I  know  that  such  things  must  sometimes  be,  in  the 
present  semi-barbarous  state  of  society.  But  every  evil  may  be 
lessened,  retarded,  and,  perhaps,  avoided  altogether,  by  sound 
and  dispassionate  conduct,  by  quickness  of  apprehension,  and 
promptitude  of  action.  Upon  more  than  one  occasion  I  have 
Stood  your  friend — stood  between  you,  and  the  consequences 


TEMPER.  129 

of  your  vehement  temper.     A  woman's  zeal  is  all  but  om- 
nipotent. 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (in  a  low  voice,  and  subdued  manner.) 
You  have  been  often  very  kind,  and  very  useful,  and  very 
forbearing-.  My  dear  Mrs.  Godfrey,  I  am  fully  aware  of  all 
your  merit,  your  friendship,  your  superior  mind,  and  your 
indulg-ent  disposition.  But  I  assure  you,  in  the  present  in- 
stance, your  are  quite  wrong.  I  have  not  a  quarrel  with 
any  human  being  ;  except,  perhaps, — with — myself. 

MRS.  GODFREY,  (after  a  deep  respiration.) 
Thank  God, — m.y  child — her  children  are  spared  that. 
[She  remains  a  moment  in  silence  ;  her  hands  and  lips  com- 
pressed. Then  brushing  away  her  tears,  she  continues,  with 
great  cheeriness  and  animation.^  Come,  all  is  well  then, 
except  you,  Wentworth ;  you  are  not  well.  I  know  that 
nothing  but  illness  could  have  prevented  you  from  joining  a 
circle,  of  which  you  are  the  pride  and  the  delight, — when 
you  are  not  out  of.  ...  . 

[Draws  up  her  mouth  into  a  grimace  of  extreme  comic  humour  ;  and 
gradually  imitates  a  countenance  gloomed  by  sulkiness,  and  dis- 
torted by  passion.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (faltering  and  smiling.) 
Temper. 


Exactly. 


MRS.  GODFREY,  (smiling.) 


MR.  WENTWORTH. 
Weil,  I  assure  you  ma'am,  that  is  not  the  case  now — I  am 
ill.     \JPvbts  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and  sighs  convulsively. '\ 

MRS.  GODFREY. 
But  what  is  ill-temper,  but  ill-health, — a  spring  loose 
somewhere  or  other, — uneasy  sensations  venting  themselves 
in  jarring  actions, — the  first  step  towards  insanity  ?  The 
patient  mistakes  his  own  internal  sense  of  suffering  for  some- 
thing wrong  in  externals.  Oh !  my  dear  Frederick,  how 
often  does  the  poor,  long-enduring  wife  sustain  the  inflictions 
of  ill-humour,  ill-language,  and  insolent  treatment,  because 
you  lords  of  the  creation  have  eaten  truffles,  instead  of  pota- 
toes, (as  you  did  yesterday,)  and  drank  strong  port  when  you 

24 


130  TEMPER. 

should  have  taken  only  water-gruel  !  I  really  believe  this 
malady  of  ill-ternper  occasions  more  frequent  domestic  mise- 
ry, than  all  the  gallantry  of  France,  or  the  corruption  of  Ger- 
many. \_Mrs.  Godfrey  takes  his  hand  and  feels  his  pulse.'\ 
Good  heavens !  what  a  pulse  ! — you  seem  suffocating,  too  ! 
I  was  quite  right.  Now  don't  be  angry,  you  know  I  saved  you 
once  from  a  typhus  fever,  by  a  little  precaution  and  prompt- 
ness. I  have  brought  our  good  old  friend,  Mr.  Reynolds, 
as  my  cavalier  across  the  square.     Pray  see  him. 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (much  shaken.) 
Indeed,  madam,  I  cannot,  at  this  moment,  see   any  one. 
I  did  think,  did  hope,  that  Emily but  she  is  amus- 
ing herself,  I  suppose  acting  proverbs,  and  charming  every 
one  at  the  harp  or  piano. 

MRS.  GODFREY. 
Emily,  poor  love  !  alas  !  no.     She  has  spent  the  evening  in 
my  dressing-room,  in  tears  and  misery.     I  would  not  suffer 
her  to  return  home.     Once  in  a  way,  I  thought  it  was  best 
to  let  you  have  your  fit  out,  and  do  your  worst. 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (shudders.) 
My  worst ! ! 

MRS.  GODFREY. 
But  to  return  to  my  cavalier. — You  can  have  no  reasonable 
objection  to  see  Reynolds.     Come  in,  Mr.  Reynolds. 
[Enter,  Mr.  Reynolds,  from  the  back  drawing-room.] 

MR.  REYNOLDS. 
Objection  to  see  me  !  why  one  female  jobation  is  worse  than 
a  consultation  of  doctors.     Come,  Avhat  is  the  matter  ? 

[He  shakes  Mr.  Wentworth's  hand,  and  feels  his  pulse.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (hurt.) 
You  treat  me  like  a  child  ! 

MRS.  GODFREY. 
And  are  not  all  invalids  children?     Creatures  of  deficient 
power,  without  self-possession  or  self-control !     Human  na- 
ture is,  altogether,  a  bad  business  ;  but  we  must  make  the 
best  of  it ;  and  bleed  when  we  cannot  reason. 


TEMPER.  131 

MR.  REYNOLDS. 
To  be  sure!  A  true  morcilist  should  never  go  without  his 
lancets  ;  and  legislators  would  do  well  to  prescribe  calomel 
and  straight  waistcoats,  in  a  thousand  cases,  where  they  order 
gaols  and  pillories !  So  tell  some  one  to  bring  cups  and  ban- 
dages. 

[tie  takes  out  his  instruments.     Mr.  Wentworth  exhibits  signs  of 
dishke  and  resistance.] 

MRS.  GODFREY,  (in  a  whisper.) 

Insist,  insist ! 

[Re-enter  Denis  with  a  tray,  replenished,  and  smelling  strongly  of 
eggs  and  bacon.  J 

MRS.  GODFREY,  (in  astonishment.) 
What  have  you  there,  Denis  ? 

DENIS. 
It's  a  taste  of  bacon  and  eggs,  maram,  and  the  pickled 
cuckcumbers  ;  in  regard  of  the  masther's  never  tasting  bit 
nor  sup  this  day,  since  breakfast. 

MRS.  GODFREY,'  (taking  the  tray  out  of  Denis's  hand  ;  and,  to  his 
amazement  and  mortification,  sending  it  out  of  the  room.) 

Bacon  and  pickles  !  nonsense.  Go,  bring  up  two  cups, 
and  some  linen  bandages  ;  and  order  quantities  of  hot  water 
to  be  got  ready.     Your  master  must  be  bled. 

DENIS,  (with  a  supplicating  look.) 
Asking  your  honour's  pardon,  Mrs.  Godfrey,  maram,  sure, 
you  wouldn't  be  afther  murthuring  him,  maram,  intirely? 
Bleed  a  man  that's  starving  wich  the  hunger,  and  kilt  with 
the  wakeness  ? 

MRS.  GODFREY,  (peremptorily.) 
Don't  talk,  but  obey.     [She  turns  to  Mr.  Wentuwrth.'] — 
Come  now,  I  know  I  am  a  bore  ;  but  you  must  be  bled  all  the 
same.     I'll  go  to  your  room,  and  see  that  all  is  right. 

MR.  WENTWORTH. 
After  what  has  passed,  I  believe,  my  dear  madam,  I  ought 
to  indulge  you  in  your  theory  ;  and  the  fact  is,  that  I  do  feel 
exceedingly  unwell ;  but  I  think  Mr.  Reynolds  will  agree  so 


132  TEMPER. 

far  with  Denis,  as  not  to  prescribe  loss  of  blood  to  a  man  in 
my  situation.  However,  I  don't  much  care  what  you  do  with 
me.     [Sighi?ig.'\ 

MR.  REYNOLDS,  (casting  a  momentary  look  of  intelligence  at  Mrs. 
Godfrey.) 

His  pulse,  madam,  are  not  quite  as  rapid  as  they  were ; 
and  I  am  now  disposed  to  try  what  rest,  and  a  good  night's 
sleep,  if  he  can  get  it,  will  do  for  him.  To-morrow,  if  he  is 
not  better  .... 

MRS.  GODFREY. 

You  know  best,  sir,  and  in  your  own  art,  it  would  not  be 
wise  to  contradict  you.  But  1  still  hold  my  opinion  that  a 
little  .  .  .  pulling  down  would  ...  do  him  no  harm. 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (in  great  but  suppressed  vexation.) 
Mrs.  Godfrey,  where  is  Emily  ?     I  will  do  nothing,  con- 
sent to  nothing,  till  .... 

[Mrs.  Wentworth  and  hor  children  (who  have  been  for  some  time  in 
the  adjoining  room)  rufh  in.  He  springs  forward  to  meet  them. 
The  pistol  drops  from  his  breast.  Mrs.  Wentworth  shrieks  and 
falls.] 

MR.  WENTWORTH,  (raising  her  in  his  arms.) 
Emily,  Emily,  forgive  me — hear  me.    Look  up.     I  swear 
by  all  that's  sacred,  it  was  merely  a  fit  of  my  cursed  temper, 
indulged  to  my  uttermost  selfishness. 

[He  holds  her  and  his  children  in  a  strict  embrace.] 

MRS.  GODFREY,  (apart  to  Mr.  Reynolds,  who  picks  up  the  pistol.] 

That  weapon  in  his  breast  too  !  What  may  we  not  have 
prevented  ! — 'tis  too  horrible  to  think  upon  !  One  moment 
longer,  perhaps,  and  how  many  might  have  been  made 
miserable,  and  all  because  .... 

MR.  REYNOLDS. 

A  man  inherits   a  particular  fibre,  or  lives   in 

idleness  and  luxury,  to  the  promotion  of  bile  and  bad  humour. 
But  whatever  may  be  appearances,  I  am  certain  that  nothing 
very  tragic  was  likely  to  occur.  Mr.  Wentworth  is  not 
quite  so  bad  as  that :  he  will  tell  you  all  about  it  to-morrow, 


TEMPER.  133 

if  the  ridicule  be  not  too  great,  to  admit  of  a  frank  confession. 
The  sublime  and  the  ridiculous,  you  know  .  .  . 

MRS.  GODFREY,  (thoughtfully.) 

After  all,  man  is  a  pauvre  Sire^  and  humanity  a  pretty 
business. 

MR.  REYNOLDS. 

Very :  society  should  be  considered  as  one  great  lunatic 
asylum ;  and  the  patients  be  kept  low  by  temperance,  while 
we  of  the  faculty  should  always  be  prepared  with  the  rem- 
edies, in  case  of  a  break  out.  It  is  the  sane  who  are  shut 
up,  (says  somebody  that  writes  books,  which  nobody  reads 
but  you  and  I,)  and  the  mad  are  all  abroad. 


MRS.  GODFREY. 

One  would  think  so.  But  I  am  vexed  we  have  not 
punished  him  a  little  more  severely.  He  wants  a  perma- 
nent impression,  to  prevent  a  relapse.  The  fact  is,  Wilson 
and  I  have  been  in  a  conspiracy  against  him,  since  the  fit 
broke  out ;  and  have  been  watching  the  catastrophe.  I  dare 
not  trust  Emily ;  her  dotage  of  her  husband  deprives  her  of 
all  the  powers  of  her  naturally  strong  mind.  [She  turns  to 
the  Wentworths,  who  are  still  engaged  loith  each  other.'] 
Come,  come,  Emilj^  enough.  Children,  to-bed,  to-bed. 
[She  kisses  them.]  There,  "  stand  not  on  the  order  of  your 
going,  but  go  at  once."  Take  them,  Emily  ;  their  maid  has 
not  yet  returned.  [Mrs.  Godfrey/  leads  Mrs.  Wentivorth  to 
the  door,  and  whispers.]  Only  this  once,  dear  Emily — leave 
him  to  us.  Remember  this  is  not  the  first  nor  the  hundredth 
scene  of  the  same  kind. 

[She  leads  out  Mrs.  Wentworth  and  the  children.    Mr.  Reynolds 
leaves  the  room  unobserved.] 


MR.  WENTWORTH,  (alone.) 

So  then,  here  is  an  agreeable  day  lost !  friends  and  rela- 
tions, mortified  and  insulted  !  a  life  risked  !  and  humiliation 
the  most  profound  endured  !  and  all  for  what  ?  For  the  un- 
controlled indulgence  of  a  fit  of  temper. 

[Takes  a  candle,  and  exit.] 


134  TEMPER. 

DENIS,  (who  had  been  busy,  about  nothing,  at  the  bottom  of  the  room.) 
Why  then,  it's  a  pity  of  him,  the  cratur  ;  hit,  or  sup,  never 
passed  the  threshold  of  his  lips  this  blessed  day ;  barring  a 
taste  of  toast  at  breakfast.  Musha,  then,  the  docthors  may 
say  what  the)'-  plaze  ;  but  it's  the  rashers  and  whiskey  would 
have  cured  him,  intirely,*  in  regard  of  keeping  the  wakeness 
out  of  his  heart. 

*  Tho  caneoiis  of  this  little  drama  will  be  found  in  Monsieur  Le  Clerc's 
charming  Proverbs. 


THE  END. 


r!^VV 


/^ 


/      / 


TJW^ 


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